


Fluffy Clouds and Little Birds

by TheVenturer (a_summer_mind)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Care, Cats!, Domestic Fluff, Drabbles, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, M/M, Mostly teen, Mysteries afoot, Oral Sex, Pre and Post Reichenbach, References to Depression, Romance, Smut, Sneak Kisses, Support, Teenlock, Temporary Character Death, Warnings inside, We all know it, but we love him, canon typical rudeness, from fanfic dot net, just putting it here to cover my butt, petulent sherlock, reposting, what a man child
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 06:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 47
Words: 34,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20130859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_summer_mind/pseuds/TheVenturer
Summary: Reposting from FanFiction Net! Wanted a fresh start!Original Summary:A series of drabbles in 221, 442 or flash-fiction format, following the lives of our favorite Baker Street boys; what's going on when we aren't watching? Not in any particular order, updates erratically. Humor, life, love, feels and fluff; includes wonderful Johnlock and a developing Mystrade. Rated M for language and eventual smut, warnings inside. Suggestions and reviews are encouraged and loved!Not all are in 221 or 442 format, but definitely flash! Enjoy.





	1. Unpacking is Equivalent to Staying Still

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this is a reposting from FanFiction dot net. I can send screenshots of my hard copies if you really think i’m not legit! 
> 
> Otherwise, let me note here that not all chapters are Teen rated, but this one is! I love comments, they warm my heart.
> 
> Enjoy.

There was no easy way to settle into permanency. For people like John Watson, people who had never _really_ had a home, there was never even a template to look back on. Army life could do that to a person, give the soldier the mind of a nomad; always packed and ready to leave before the shit had even been _thrown_ at the fan. For people like John Watson, bags were never unpacked because that would mean you were comfortable; he had been trained to think that being too comfortable was a death sentence. Drawers were always empty because he knew that in a split second those rectangular boxes which someone had decided to fill with his or her belongings could become someone _else's_ property, firewood, or even target practice. Memories and memorabilia one had spent years collecting like vintage rugby cards could be tossed off to hell, as if a kid sister had decided to use them as tinder in the flames which she cooked her marshmallows on.

That being said, it is easy to see why John Watson had yet to unpack his belongings at his new flat.

It was his fourth day living at 221B Baker Street but, in his defense, he had been trying to write up that bloody crazed first adventure he and Sherlock had shared-A Study in Pink- for his blog. It was half in the hopes that Ella would be satisfied and leave him alone, half to just get out all the excess nerves and leftover thrills. Sherlock, on the other hand, was doing the _opposite_ of John. Instead of still being consumed by the exciting high of the chase, the young consulting detective seemed deflated; like a slinky that had reached the bottom of a very steep hill. The doctor in Watson was genuinely concerned for the lanky man who hadn't left his settee in the past two days. Of course, John would go out at times to brave the grocery stores and escape the spoiled food in the pantry or to simply go out to escape the peculiar smell of ash and mould. But whenever he came back, Sherlock was _there_. On that _couch_. Laying straight and long, dressed in the same pajama pants, plain t-shirt and dressing gown he was the night before, and the day before, as well as the night before both of those, etc.

That being said, it was easy enough for Sherlock to deduce _why_ the good doctor had yet to unpack his belongings in their new flat.

Sherlock _had_ actually gotten off the settee when John got out, no matter how doubtful and idiotically worried the doctor seemed to be [obvious from the distractingly _long _stares he had been receiving from behind the older man's computer screen] about his health. He had told John before they had even moved in together he went days without talking. Had John forgotten _already_? Must be nice, that _forgetting_. Sherlock hadn't been able to delete a single memory of John since first seeing him in that lab. The detective wished he could have forgotten the way John's bloody giggle sounded the night he killed for Sherlock, the way he smirked almost lovingly as he told the taller man he was an idiot (the very idea was simply preposterous), the way he wore those monstrous jumpers… the anger and confusion Sherlock had felt only _yesterday_ when he realized John had yet to properly move into his room. He hadn't even emptied his suit case yet! As if he was going to pop out one night and never come back. The very idea left a disgusting taste in Sherlock's mouth, left him… _worried_. For an unknown reason he didn't quite understand yet, it also left him _afraid_... That in its own way was disarming.

Sherlock had simply been curious to see what John's things actually _were_, what kind of small bauble he may own, what books or pictures he might stack or hang… what color pants he might wear (later Sherlock would have the pleasure of finding out they were a beautiful shade of red, like the wrapping paper of a Christmas present…). Obviously, he had looked into the other mans room for the simple reason of _learning_. Of _studying_. That was the _only_ possible reason.

As Sherlock looked over at the Doctor across the room, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. The ashen haired man looked so innocent in his puffy red chair, so at ease, so _calm_. As if he knew that Sherlock knew but he didn't want to admit he knew Sherlock knew so he just sat there like a _know-it-all_ typing away at his little red laptop… it was infuriating. But as the cutting gaze of Sherlock's icy tinted eyes met the wide, innocent blue deepness of John's, the former lost all their anger. The feeling ran away with the fork like that spoon had in some old nursery rhythm, one long deleted from Sherlock's mind. It melted in the sun like a Popsicle, the violent anger turning sticky; it felt light and heavy all at the same time.

It stung with a bit of hurt but mostly, the anger had turned to longing. The worst kind of longing at that: the kind that made you want to whisper questions on the air so only one person alone could hear them.

And the man in the puffy red chair almost missed it as Sherlock did just that.

"Are you planning on leaving already, John?"

It was spoken so low and faint. The man in question blinked a few times at the screen of his laptop before looking up at his flat-mate. Sherlock's face was blank, causing John to wonder if he had actually heard anything at all.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Sherlock only stared at John for a few seconds more before saying, louder this time, "you haven't unpacked anything yet."

Even though it was certainly meant to sound huffy, there was a fleeting something in the seasoning of his voice. Almost like when you can taste a small bit of cinnamon in some grandmothers recipe for cookies. But to John, Sherlock's cinnamon sounded sour. It sounded… hurt. This, after not hearing that low baritone for almost three whole days, was a genuine shock to the man whose belongings were under scrutiny. Besides, John swore he had heard something different...

"I, uhm… when were you in my room, Sherlock? And why?"

The curly-haired man rolled his eyes and sat up to face John. "Do you really think I lay here all day and night? I got curious and went into your room, so what? The point is, you haven't unpacked any belongings, not even your clothes," his eyes were gaining their familiar fire but now it seemed it was hiding itself.

Knowing Sherlock was holding back made John want to feel the heat rather than just the warmth. Frustration was beginning to boil as he lectured, "You can't just pop into peoples rooms as you please, Sherlock, that's not how it works. And whether or not I've unpacked my things is none of your bloody business."

Sherlock' brows dug deep on his forehead, his frown set deeper on his mouth and John's face did the same. In a battle of wills, they had more exchanges of "why were you in my room?!" Or "bored, John!" Then Sherlock let it slip, the thing he had immediately deduced when he first saw Johns full suitcase resting on the hardwood floor:

"_You're afraid of unpacking, John!"_

With his mouth hung open still, ready to comeback with a retort or argument, John displayed a lovely array of emotions. Sherlock could see them all clearly, first the anger then a bit of confusion, followed by even more _obvious_ confusion.

"Sherlock… I'm not… afraid of unpacking, I just haven't… why would you…" Johns face took on the pink shade of embarrassment now, as he shuffled on his feet, then he looked at some kind of interesting discoloration on the floor or… something; he looked at anything other than Sherlock. With a sigh the blogger sat back in his chair asked his detective, a bit more clearly this time, how he had come to that conclusion.

"John, you're a soldier. You haven't had an actual home in years and it's safe to assume since humans are creatures of habit, you wouldn't want to unpack because it'd make you… uneasy," Sherlock looked away uncomfortably, wondering why he had stumbled on the last particular word. He threw in an, "Obviously," for good measure, trying to gain back ground. He cleared his throat and continued, "Such uneasiness is cause for concern on my end as I need your mind completely devoted to the case. Once we have one."

John gave a searching stare and Sherlock thought maybe he had done something wrong, something to turn the _wickedly_ dull tables of concern onto himself. No, he couldn't have; he had given no reason for such emotion. It was all John's imagination, thinking Sherlock was somehow in need of _coddling_. The man was constantly oozing with sentiment and for some strange reason he had started, every so often, to direct that sentiment onto his genius flat mate. Whether it was the frequent stares throughout the past few days or the domestic way John insisted on cooking dinner for two, even if Sherlock rarely ate it… he was like some obligated mother hen.

Nodding his head a bit and slapping his hands on the arms of his chair, John got up and made his way to the kitchen, "fancy a cuppa?" Sherlock looked back at him confused, eyebrows drawn together. He gave a noncommittal grunt before sitting down, this time in his armchair facing John. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he searched the man at the kettle for any possible explanations. All he could see was… John.

"You aren't angry anymore?"

The older man looked over at the detective-who looked refreshingly confused and unsure- and after a few seconds he went back to making the tea. "No Sherlock, I'm not angry…" He came back over and put the other man's tea onto the table between them. Taking a sip of his own, John gave Sherlock a hard look, "but you won't do it again." With that he picked up the paper and began to read the same dreadful tabloids which gave the genius headaches.

With his eyes narrowed suspiciously, Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt. He knew he would be going back into the bloggers room, but he decided arguing further was a lost cause. He simply kept studying John, intently searching for that explanation. Why wasn't he asking how he knew the reason John hadn't unpacked? Why wasn't he still angry? Sherlock had intruded, '_crossed the line_' so to speak. He knew that much about normal social niceties. But no matter how hard he looked, the younger man saw only the surface. Seeing all, he couldn't observe anything. There was only John… As Sherlock looked at the tea in front of him, he decided that only seeing John was enough- for now.

Meanwhile, the good doctor was thinking about which of his drawers he might put his cardigans and jumpers.


	2. You Never Forget Your First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 221B? When was the last time one of these were written huh?

John had woken up in a fine mood; his nightmares had been replaced with undisturbed sleep and sometimes there were quiet sounds of a violin… Going into the kitchen he was intent on having a nice big breakfast, celebrating a full week in his new flat, living with the bloody gorgeous genius Sherlock Holmes. John smiled as he searched the cupboard-unknowingly disturbing a jar of eyeballs- for their mugs. The younger man would be up soon enough.

The detective had proven to never bore the doctor, and vice versa. Sherlock was… enigmatic; unlikable yet charming. He hated being bored, he found most things dull but apparently, John was the exception. Sherlock hadn't said it out loud but John didn't need the words. True, he wasn't as brilliantly deductive as Sherlock but the blogger could just tell… they fit together.

John put the kettle on and started walking towards the refrigerator. He decided if this was a celebration, he may as well enjoy himself and cook some actual food.

Now, being a Doctor, he was a certainly not new to this sort of thing. But as John unsuspectingly opened the steel door, he saw it and let out a creative string of curses…

You never forget your first decapitated head.

John wondered fleetingly where Sherlock had hid the rest of the body...


	3. An Early Morning Dose of Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comments are loved and appreciated like a hot bath on a cold day.  
Enjoy!

The mornings after a case were the most blissful for the live-in doctor of 221B Baker Street. He could take his time waking up, as opposed to the mornings his tall, dark and handsome detective woke him, yelling his sodding ear off, "A case, John, we have a case!" The mornings when John could take a relaxing shower, have a blissful cup of tea which did not in fact have eyes rolling in it were the ones he had come to look forward to.

These were the mornings John liked the most…

This morning was not actually one of those.

John had been indeed tricked by the world into thinking it was; he had time to fully wake, he had that relaxing shower. He even had that cup of hot tea in his hands now. But he also had that tall, dark and annoying flat-mate doing fuck knows what to his leg.

Now, John thought himself a relatively patient man. Living with someone as pompous, arrogant and, at times, bloody angering as Sherlock Holmes had proven that the blogger could indeed go hours, even days till the line wore thin and he snapped. With most people it took only a few minutes before they exclaimed, "piss off!" tuning the young detective out. John wasn't most people.

Because he knew Sherlock was aware of all that, John tried not to lose his temper as the cold pale foot under the table kicked his bare shin.

Again.

For the hundredth time.

This had gone on for the past ten minutes and John had, honestly he had, tried to ignore the irritation which had been rising to dangerous levels. While he sat holding his tea, knuckles whitening, staring intensely at the man across the table… waiting.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow expectantly as the toes of his right foot made contact with the skin and muscle which covered the tibia bone of his exceedingly dense Doctor.

The younger man thought he was being quite obvious; pursing his lips slightly, trying to direct John's attention to his mouth. Sherlock certainly wasn't going to ask for what he had presumed to be some sort of morning ritual among sentimental people.

It was Sherlock's patience which eventually ran out. He huffed, "really, John?" and leaned over, giving the now attractively confused man a hard kiss.

With a satisfied grin Sherlock resumed his position across from the ashy-blonde. Taking out his phone he began to text Lestrade back-the detective inspector had been asking for help on an interesting case involving a blue carbuncle-Sherlock looked up to find John staring at him with narrow, questioning eyes.

"Oh, yes. Good morning, John."


	4. A Sneak Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does it count as nonfiction if this happened to me?  
Another 221B. I forgot how insanely fun these are.

Sherlock knew the man would be unable to stop him.

John's hands were nearly elbows deep in dark, swirling water. Battling microscopic germs which threatened the health of those who dared cross them; warring with the possibility of poisoning… Of course, John was winning; his Doctor would always triumph over the evils of… well, the evils of anything, really. Sherlock believed wholeheartedly in that.

Just like he believed that now was the best time to begin his experiment; whilst John was busy washing the dishes.

Of course, it was only logical. John's hands were occupied, which meant he wouldn't be shoving the young detective away if he had any sort of objection. Sherlock also knew he would have no problem sneaking up on his blogger, as the shorter man was easily distracted by menial labour. Often humming whilst scrubbing away at the grease and grim, it was some pastime even the genius couldn't understand.

So, Sherlock planned the best course of action, and then went into battle. He crept quietly behind the unsuspecting doctor and, just as John plunged his hands back into the soapy water, the taller man bent over, placing a light kiss on the tanned cheek of his friend...

As John jumped around in shock, Sherlock's silk shirt was thoroughly soaked with bubbles and dirty dish water.

"Bugger..."


	5. One of the Times Sherlock put John’s Needs Before his Own - The Train Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

There weren't many occasions one could point out when a man such as Sherlock Holmes was truly considerate of another human being.

It would have been easy, for anyone really, to simply write him off as a sociopath and be done with it, never bothering to dig the six-foot underground where the young man had buried his ability to feel.

But John Watson had always been, would always be, the exception to everyone.

The doctor could erode all of the mountainous walls Sherlock had carved out of the hardest marble with only his sincerity, then wipe the crumble and the dust of the wreckage away with kind words and soft hands.

There were little ways Sherlock knew how to give back to the man; his experience in the field of love was, even he could admit, lacking. Still, he had tried. Right now, at nearly 3-am, was one of those times.

For a man with as nonexistent a sleep-schedule as Sherlock Holmes, being up at such an hour and still being vitally aware of the man beside him wasn't something which would be considered abnormal or unorthodox but rather a side-effect of close quarters and John's ability to demolish any fortresss of solitude the detective tried to erect.

On this train ride home from Surrey, the nearly two hour train ride, Sherlock knew that John would fall asleep on him. It was extremely obvious in the darkening circles under the older man's Atlantic blue eyes, in all the breathes he took which ended in yawns; the fact they had been awake solving murders for the past 36-odd hours also helped solidify the deduction.

Knowing all this with fierce confidence, the taller man scrunched up his knees upon the back of the seat directly in front of him, thus forcing his body to shift downwards. This brought his bony shoulder just a few inches below the muscled one of his companion.

Silently he began typing away at his black berry, reading over the crime news and the agony columns. Suddenly he felt a weight fall in his curling mass of hair.

Giving into the small smile which played upon his lips, Sherlock Holmes let his eyelids flutter downwards slipping off into a blissful sleep to the melody of his bloggers heartbeat.


	6. A Dramatic Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for the user Ashtrees on FF.net - many thanks to them for the suggestion (even though it is years old at this point...)
> 
> Enjoy

Sherlock Holmes had been confined to a couch, wrapped in a tight ball of something that felt oddly like his silk bed sheet. His hands were bound… at least they felt so; achy and old, like the bones had aged twenty-years without his permission.

His nose was running uncontrollably, like a constant nosebleed yet he didn't feel injured, he felt drained.

There was a brush of something on his cheek; it felt strangely like soft lips. Light sounds danced by his pale ears but never made it inside to be deciphered. He thought he heard "soup" but it passed by too quickly.

Suddenly his throat was engulfed by fire.

He could have sworn he was being forced to drink pure acid. He'd have bet his life's work on it.

The taste was vulgar, the liquid felt hot; unwelcomed, it burned a trail of lava down Sherlock's throat. He tried sputtering a protest. He could hear a distant voice but tones and fluctuations of cadence were scratchy; they made the detectives head throb.

"John… John, I think I'm dying…"

Opening his heavy eyes Sherlock saw the blurry face, barely distinguishing soft blue eyes and an infuriating smirk spreading under them.

"You're always so bloody dramatic, Sherlock."

With that Sherlock pouted childishly with his full lips, and the Doctor stuffed a thermometer between.


	7. Sneak Attack, Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is one of my favorites. It was so nice to reread it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Comments are my bread, butter, jam and all that.

This time Sherlock had it all planned. He had gone over every detail in his head, ever scenario and every outcome. Thoroughly.

Leaving a brand new jar of John's favorite jam out on the table, it was bait the detective knew couldn't be resisted; it hadn't even been opened. John didn't trust any cans previously opened by Sherlock… Not since q case of mistaken identity and curdled blood; that was for a different experiment. It seemed tedious to Sherlock. John was developing an unhealthy suspicion of all things red in their cupboard… But the taller man had taken many precautions; he had even left a note-a forged note, he had to admit-which said that the can was from Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock watched from behind the hallway door as John looked from side to side, much like a child who was about to raid the cookie jar. The younger man smiled triumphantly because he knew he had succeeded.

His favorite blogger got out a spoon then proceeded to open the small jar of strawberry jam. After a moment of close study which Sherlock found quite entertaining to watch, John brought the container up to his nose to sniff it cautiously. Deciding it was indeed untouched by his genius flat-mate, he concluded that it was therefore safe to indulge in.

John moved to his red sitting chair and with that Sherlock began to carefully make his way over; silent as a cat silently stalking after a mouse. He kept his breathing steady, made sure to avoid all the creaky spots on the hardwood floor…

Then he pounced… in a manner of speaking.

Coming around the chair quickly, Sherlock leant down in front of the ashy-blonde man and gave a lingering kiss to the corner of his thoroughly surprised mouth. A tingle coursed through Sherlock's fingertips as he rested one hand on Johns knee and the other on the arm of the chair. Closing his eyes, indulged in the feeling of stubble under his soft lips, letting his tongue gently graze the sticky skin… the detective could distinguish the faint taste of strawberries, of mint, of…

John was rigid, not knowing what exactly to make of it all. One minute he was enjoying his favorite brand of jam and the next his best friend was actually kissing the side of his mouth. Out of bloody fucking nowhere, Sherlock was kissing the corner of his mouth. It felt like ages before the younger man moved away. As John opened his mouth to speak, no words would came out.

Thankfully, Sherlock always knew what to say:

"That's a good brand, John. We should get it more often."


	8. An Experiment in Sentiment - One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I always thought this was a bit OOC but oh well, I enjoyed it. Skip over if you don’t enjoy the idea of tall detectives getting piggy-back rides from BAMF doctors.

John Watson could accept a great many things about Sherlock Holmes, including the many traits others would love to see completely eradicated from the young detective's personality. His arrogance was bloody annoying at times but understandable given his massive intellect; his flair for drama was certainly tiresome but never boring; even his experiments were (usually) fascinating.

Something John could have done without was Sherlock's penchant for testing things and experimenting on him. They were invasive, degrading, and/or just plain mad.

Most of the time.

There were times when Sherlock's experiments were beguilingly innocent, like little questions you maybe heard from the mouths toddlers. For example, that time he decided to build an igloo in the living room to see how long it would take to melt, or when he honestly had no idea what the term 'French -kiss' implied… though honestly that last one ended up being anything but innocent.

Today, Sherlock's experiment was simple: Sentiment.

The blogger and the detective were walking the path of a park when the latter, drawn by the bubbling sounds of laughter, spotted a teenage couple nearby partaking in some strange behavior… the girl was atop the boys back, kissing the upper region of his neck. The boy was smiling as he ran in a quick tight circle, causing the girls diaphragm to again push out the elated sounds in the forms of giggles and guffaws.

Intrigued, the curly-haired man looked to the man at his side. Doing some quick calculations in his head, he decided.

"John, I'm going to perform an experiment and I require your cooperation."

The shorter man had only a few seconds to look up suspiciously but had no time to react as Sherlock dropped back behind him and proceeded to lie on his back. "Oi, what that hell do you think you're doing?" John tried to shrug the disturbingly light man off his well-muscled frame but the long legs had already wrapped around him like a vice.

Giving a quick kiss to the small space of skin between John's ear and his ashy-blonde hair, Sherlock instructed quietly: "now, spin around, and quickly; my trousers are stretching."

At that John gave a rueful smile… well if that's how it's going to be played…

Eventually the detective himself was reduced to a few quiet gasps (he'd never admit he actually laughed) as John spun in tight circles. That caused the air around Sherlock to tighten and his stomach knot gloriously; John laughed as his legs began to cramp.

Sherlock Holmes would never change anything about his counterpart, and many would agree with him; nothing needed to be changed. So as the younger man gave into the simple joy of sentiment, he relished in the discovery he had just made: John Watson had the surprising ability to cause the genius to forget his entire experiment.


	9. Transport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I listened to “Finish Your Collapse and Stay for Breakfast” by Broken Social Scene while writing this so feel free to dip into that tune as well.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TrigWarnings for lack of eating, language and Sherlock being pugnacious.

"I've told you before, John, my body is simply _transport_. I will give it nourishment when I feel it is needed and recharge time when it is required but I will _not_ let it rule my _mind_!"

"You haven't eaten in four _fucking_ days and you look like a walking corpse, Sherlock. I'm not telling you anymore I'm _ordering_ you as your bloody Doctor, you need to take _care_ of yourself!"

"I suppose I can't expect _you_ to understand, you're so _calm_, so wonderfully _vacant_ in that silly little head of yours."

"You complete and utter dick," with that, the shorter man walked quickly, right up to his flat-mate, so close their heavy breath mixed in the small bit of atmosphere still left between them. He practically growled, "I'll show you _transport_."

The usually cool eyes closed tightly, mere seconds after John brought their lips together. It was hard and smothering, causing the normally hyper-aware detective to think of nothing but _JohnJohnJohn _and wish for nothing more. The doctor was breaking his defense down bit by bit, bringing a monsoon to the desert where Sherlock's feelings had been left to burn and wither.

John almost smiled as he felt the low vibrating moan. He knew he had won this battle, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to enjoy it.

The shorter man gripped the dark hair of his lover, twisting the curls in his fingers. Sherlock whimpered helplessly as John juxtaposed the tugging of his hair with the quick sting of teeth tugging on the detectives lower lip. There were too many sensations, too many things to compute it was all _JohnJohnJohn_ and there wasn't anything-wasn't anyone- the detective could have wanted more.

Backing his flat-mate against the kitchen table, John could hear the clatter of beakers and test-tubes. For a second he thought Sherlock might become aware of his surroundings and stop this-God, John hoped he wouldn't stop this- but all thought was erased as Sherlock gripped the jumper-clad doctor tightly by the shoulders, pulling him closer.

Moving his lips and teeth and tongue slowly from jaw-line to ear-lobe then to pulse-points living below the skin of his friends pale neck, John made a slowly torturous journey; Sherlock could only stand there on ever-weakening knees, only able to gasp and shiver and give. He'd have given anything to the blonde doctor in that moment, have begged him twice to never stop. Every touch left the detectives blood throbbing in his head, colors dancing and leaping behind his tightly closed eyes. He was being engulfed, choked, burned and he couldn't think to care; couldn't think at all.

It was absolutely breathtaking.

Then John's lip returned to Sherlock's, giving another hard, dominating kiss before moving a hair away. The air was electric between them, both eyes were dilated and both bodies were hot. It was John who finally spoke, only a whisper with the effect of a scream:

"Transport, my arse."


	10. An Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for so sad baby detectives who miss their warm sweater wearing loves.

Sherlock hated when John left him.

It was always after some kind of row, some stupidly dull domestic which caused the shorter man to stalk off to his room or go out on a walk, leaving the detective stomping to lie in a ball on the settee. The latter would try and analyze every single word which had been spat out between them; each trying to deduce from it some way to either right whatever wrong he had committed or get John to apologize. He'd prefer the second option.

Sherlock hated the way John's leaving made him feel.

First there was the anger. Even someone with as little interest in emotion as himself was prone to bursts of it. It made him swell, made him want to do nothing more than blow something up (on purpose rather than accident) or shoot at the wall (with something much larger than John's handgun). The second feeling to invade the detectives being was the worry, then the fear… Like he was being eaten from the inside by it; fear not of being alone but of being alone without John. Sherlock knew he wasn't well-liked by many and while that never bothered him the idea of John truly hating him, of his blogger being anything more than angry with him, made the young man… panic. He could be anywhere with John alongside him but there was no where he could think to go if John were ever to leave him.

Sherlock hated how he couldn't say the words to John.

He knew that somewhere he was sorry for how he acted towards his friend. Somewhere he knew what words would solve this puzzle, would make John's anger soften and melt back into… into whatever John felt for Sherlock normally. Still, he couldn't say the words. They were locked away from the inside, wrapped in caution-tape, never to be opened. Most of the time he didn't understand why he must apologize; he simply saved people the trouble of finding things out later than was necessary. Like Molly and Jim from I.T. (otherwise known as James Moriarty) and like… tonight. When he informed John he knew the man was bisexual. This was apparently a bit not good, that knowing…

Sherlock… he hated himself for causing John to leave.

The doctor didn't get home that night till well past midnight, leaving the lights off. Though it was dark there was the glow of some experiment and the silver moon out the window. Going to the fridge first to check for any food-of course there wasn't any- he then moved on to the cupboard to get his mug. It was then that it happened, so unexpected John felt himself jump. When he felt his heartbeat increase he hoped it was the surprise and not the close proximity of… He hadn't seen Sherlock lying on the settee when he came in, but now he could feel the taller man.

John felt the curly hair on the side of his face, tickling his ear. He felt the heavy weight of Sherlock's forehead as it rested on his shoulder, downcast. They didn't touch at any other point but even then John could feel the taller man's body. There was no heat vibrating off which meant Sherlock hadn't covered up to protect himself from the cool air of night, his posture was slack going by the weight of the downcast head… Even John could deduce what Sherlock was doing. He could feel the words he knew he wasn't going to hear.

Turning around slowly, he looked over the pale face of his friend. The light blue-green-grey eyes were avoiding contact with John's darkly storming blue ones; the bags developing under those multicolored eyes were getting concernedly deep… With a sigh, John moved a curl from the middle of pale forehead. Watching Sherlock's eyes close, feeling miniscule movement of the cheekbones into the touch… John felt a pang in his stomach, a feeling of something too close to longing. No, he couldn't accept that yet, but…

Softly, John said the words he knew his friend needed to hear, "apology accepted, Sherlock."


	11. A Study in Sleepovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Definitely OOC, but for KidLock I needed to. Also my little sister made this joke when she was 4 so I needed to write about it.
> 
> Enjoy this self indulgent chapter.

When he had moved here only a week before, John Watson hadn't expected to make many friends. He really hadn't expected to make _any,_ at least for a while. Certainly none who lived in _mansions_ like the ones he either read about or dreamed of…

Yesterday, when he had seen that curly-haired boy sitting alone in the sandbox, he was drawn to him. He looked harmless enough in his oversized black coat, though a bit strange… he seemed to be inspecting the sand…

No one else had approached John so with his blonde little head held high and with his confidence in a vice grip, he had carefully walked over… and been promptly told, "Go away." With a blush, he stood for a second then proceeded to sit down, drawing lines in the sand. There was no point in _going away_, he was already _there_… the boy in the sand opposite him finally looked up, those pale blue eyes inspecting quickly while John's dark blue ones just stared.

"I like dinosaurs too," the boy stated quickly after a moment.

John continued to stare for a few more seconds before his eyes widened, "_How_ do you know I like dinosaurs?!"

The other boy looked at him with one dark eye-brow raised, in an expression John had seen before: It was the same one his mother did when she asked John how many cookies he ate and he asked her how she knew.

"You have a dinosaur patch on your jumper," the boy informed him.

His mother usually said it was the crumbs which rested on the corner of his mouth but John decided that this boy's explanation was just as good, though just as obvious. He tentatively shuffled closer to the boy, "that was _really_ cool… how you did that."

The dark mop of curly hair rose up quickly, eyes searching yet again. "…you really think so?"

John beamed, "yeah, honestly, I wouldn't have guessed that ever!"

Light blue eyes rolled, "I didn't _guess_. I _observed_." With a huff, he continued to look at the sand before him.

John felt his smile waver slightly but he had gotten _so_ far, no point in turning back now… "You said you like dinosaurs? Do you have any toys?"

"…I have a few… why?"

"Well, you could come over my house and we could play! We have them battle to see who wins, or we just walk around with them, or we jump from couch to couch cos' the floor is lava and lava kills dinosaurs or-"

"I have more furniture and more toys at my home, we should go there." The boy didn't look up.

"Oh… well how did you know that?"

With a small shake of his head the boy gave a sigh and grumbled, "You wouldn't want to hear it…"

John blinked a few times in confusion but was too excited about the prospect of having an _actual_ friend to devote his attention to the other boy's inference. He simply stuck out his hand and declared with a smile which twinkled in his eyes, "My name is John Watson."

The other boy lifted his head slowly, first looking at the outstretched hand then moving his eyes upward to the smile dominating the short boys round face.

Taking the small tan hand in his own pale one, the curly-haired boy gave reserved smile.

"Sherlock Holmes."

-*-*-

The next day a sleek black car had picked the pair up.

John had been on the verge of bursting with nervous energy, exclaiming something about feeling like a secret agent in a spy movie. Sherlock had informed him the detectives in mystery movies were _much_ more interesting.

As they drove up to the front garden of the Holmes' estate, the dark-haired boy had thought the blonde would _literally_ implode in excitement. He bounded out of the car, taking Sherlock along with him by the hand. Upon entering the foyer, John had yelled out, "This is _amazing_!" While Sherlock allowed himself a delighted grin John giggled at his softly echoing voice. They passed by Mycroft, who looked at Sherlock with one eyebrow raised in a rather judgmental expression. Sherlock simply stuck out his tongue and continued along. His brother was obviously jealous he didn't have someone as interesting as John was turning out to be…

"Let's go to my room and we'll play dinosaurs," he said to his new friend.

And they had. They had warred with ancient reptiles, then took them on a walk around the entire east wing (pulling them with clothes-line wire leashes) and, while a few poor souls had died a fiery death on the cashmere carpet, most had even survived the lava.

That night, they had to be reminded by Mycroft (Sherlock said he was only ten years old as opposed to their four but John didn't believe him) that it was 2-a.m. This was indeed past their bedtime.

Changing into their pajama's Sherlock was impressed by John's green footies, which were adorned by blue stegosauri. John grinned happily as he poked the red tyrannosaurus-rex on Sherlock's night-shirt.

Sherlock's bed was _insanely_ large, so they decided to share it. After a few minutes of jumping (the blonde child called it 'landing' after Sherlock pointed out to _fly_ you had to stay _afloat_), they collapsed into quiet laughter which ended in yawns. Eventually their breathing slowed and eyelids became heavy. It only took 4 minutes and 26 seconds for John to fall asleep, by Sherlock's calculation, but it was requiring a _lot_ more effort on his part.

John _snored_.

_Incessantly_.

Sherlock half suspected the peacefully sleeping boy beside him had something lodged up in his nasal passage and it was getting _annoying_.

It took Sherlock only three pokes to the tummy to wake his companion, and then John asked, "wha's the matter? Is it mornin' yet?" His speech was groggy and dripped with slumber, something Sherlock found amusing. Still, there was a problem to be solved.

"John, you _snore_."

The accused stared with half-closed eyes for a few seconds then burst into a bubbling eruption of giggles. Sherlock's eyebrows drew together and he asked John confusedly, "why're you _laughing_?"

"I… I'm a…" he took a deep breath and tried again, "I'm a… a _dinoSNORE_." With that the flood-gates failed once again and let out a torrent of giggles.

Giving a laugh before he could stop himself, Sherlock then smiled and watched the blissful scene of idiotic joy in front of him.

In that moment, Sherlock had decided he had solved the snoring problem: they just wouldn't go to sleep.


	12. A Bit of Chilhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, inspired by little sis. What a stinker. And we meet Mycroft!
> 
> Enjoy!

Anyone who knew Mycroft Holmes at seventeen-years old knew that when he was on the computer, he was doing something of the utmost importance. In the future this fact was still applicable though these important things would come to include scouring CCTV camera's in search of potential terrorist organizations or simply conferencing with the leader of some small yet powerful nation but while he may not be the embodiment of the British government _yet_, it wasn't far off.

At least, that's how Sherlock saw his older brother. What six-year old with the scientific mind of a college sophomore _wouldn't_ look up to such a powerful being? Of course, Sherlock never told Mycroft of his secret admiration; that would ruin the fun.

Today was _definitely_ going to be fun; Mycroft was being mean and Sherlock decided he'd have to pay.

...

Mycroft had been instructed to babysit the younger Holmes, as usual, except today was the day he had five important phone calls and three meetings which now had to take place via his laptop screen rather than over the phone. Whenever the teenager used his phone in Sherlock's company, the boy would decide now was the perfect time to take up _drumming_ and thus bang pots and pans screaming, "Je suis une _rock star_!"

All of these meeting had the potential to either ensure the safety of queen and country or quite the opposite… That's what Mycroft always told himself. If he didn't believe it all rested on him, he may not give his best performance and failure was _never_ authorized. All Holmes were prone to dramatics, but at least his served an actual purpose. Sherlock's were just _annoying._

Now, like any genius would know to do, the elder brother had locked his dark-haired counterpart in the confines of his bedroom. The still-short monstrosity had insisted upon studying the bottom of Mycroft's shoes whilst the young man tried to have a lovely chat with one of the leaders of Asia, thus becoming made an utterly _unnecessary_ distraction. The taller man had told him, "Sherlock you're merely six-years old, you have _no_ idea how important these conferences are or what you're doing so just _GO_," and with that the younger Holmes was pushed into his room, the door was locked, and Mycroft then threw the key somewhere over his shoulder. Someone will find it.

Eventually.

With a sigh of contentment Mycroft opened his laptop and started the correct browser, inputting the correct passwords and, after the eighth and final passcode, the video feed was live.

"Sveiki-"

Suddenly and without warning, the screen went blank. Open mouthed and utterly bewildered, Mycroft stared unbelievingly at the pale tiny finger which had hit the power button of the computer.

Wide green eyes met cool icy ones and with a look of outrageous innocence, Sherlock Holmes' lip pouted.

"_Brother dear_," Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the sarcasm laced words, and Sherlock's widened, "I am only six years old. I have _no_ _idea_ what I'm doing."


	13. A Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love me some good cats. The Watson-Holmes household always has dogs but what about a gosh dang cat, huh?!
> 
> Enjoy!

For a long time, all that she knew was thirst. Sure, there was the hunger deep in her belly but the dryness of her sand-paper tongue outweighed everything. As she treaded through the streets and alley-ways her green eyes looked longingly into the dimly lit windows. It was nearly morning, the sun slowly rising through the towering buildings of London. There has to be someone… finally a large black door opened and she cautiously watched as an ashy-haired man dressed in a soft looking white jumper emerged. He walked over to the trash can she was hiding behind and deposited his trash bag.

Slowly she moved out of her hiding place, her eyes wide and pleading. The man stopped mid-turn, his tanned face turning soft. He kneeled down on his brown oxfords and held out his hand, "come here, come on." She didn't appreciate the patronizing but at least someone was acknowledging her existence instead of just calling her 'mangy' or 'dirty'. She walked over carefully, her orange tail hanging low. The man had gentle hands and she was too tired, too thirsty to fight as he picked her up. He began mumbling to himself about fleas and diseases and rabies but all she could hear was the low rumbling purr which was escaping from her belly.

The man put her down again and she mewled in protest. He's leaving me already? The man with the gentle hands, brown oxfords and white jumper pet her head quickly and turned back, heading in past the large black door. She sat down on tired legs and looked at the dirty pavement with a mixture of sorrow and hate. Then she heard a quiet creaking sound and, looking up quickly, saw the man emerging yet again; this time he was holding a small blue bowl and a napkin…

"Here, love. You have to be quiet though, or Sherlock will find you. I'd hate to think of the experiments he may do on you," he smiled warmly, no malice in his voice that she could distinguish with her sensitive ears. He sat on the door step with a grunt and put down the bowl. Still suspicious, she slowly padded up to the round container and saw… water. Sniffing cautiously, she tasted the hydrating liquid carefully and nearly purred with pleasure.

Lapping it up enthusiastically, the man's still gentle hands were stroking her thin back. "You're so skinny, kitty. As a Doctor I suppose it's my duty to help you out. Surely Mrs. Hudson will understand why I took some of her fish…" with that he laid down the napkin, revealing the strips of haddock. Now she did purr, moving her back into the strokes. The man chuckled lightly, "well, you're welcome. You need a name I suppose… something that Sherlock might appreciate if I can convince him to maybe let you…" as she watched his face changed from perplexed to inspired to darkly humerous.

"Oh, I know the absolute perfect name for you, love. Sherlock'll love this…"

With a final stroke of his gentle hands the man rose from the step and gave one last loving look to her, smiling broadly.

"I'll be seeing you, Copernicus."


	14. Sherlock Gets a Lesson in French

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steamy but not M-rated yet! This was fun to write when I did. Ah, to be young and not experienced in the art of smut... I won’t rewrite it too much, preserve the innocence of my youth!

He was in a state of bliss, steam rolling around him like a blanket of warmth, wrapping him in some serene cocoon. It was his first shower in almost a week, as he and the live-in detective had been running after some cult of some overly excited murderers. It was so calming, so peaceful to just listen to the pattering of water falling over him, falling around him like a rain, and not that deep, grating, _arrogant_ baritone…

"John?"

The ashy-blonde man in the shower jumped and nearly fell on his arse.

"John?!"

Swearing venomously the doctor turned off water and took three deep breathes…

"John!"

Third breathe ending in a growl, he pulled a towel over his hips and left the bathroom.

"_What_, what could it _possibly_ be?"

His eyes were closed and his fingers were steepled under his chin in that upside-down 'V', indicating the detective was deep in thought. John closed his eyes tightly before looking up to the ceiling, praying to any diety at all to give him strength enough not to strangle the man before him. "Sherlock…"

The detectives eyes opened suddenly, "_Ah_, yes, there you are. I was reviewing a case for Lestrade and the killer left some evidence and I wanted your take on it." He held out a plastic bag containing a ripped piece of paper.

Taking the baggy John looked in and his brow drew together in confusion. It was only two words, written in red lipstick with a kiss left on the side. It read, '_French Kiss_'

"A kiss is simply a kiss no matter _what_ geological location, I don't see why anyone would have written- "

"Sherlock…"

"-such a preposterous thing. It makes no sense, what does it _mean_?"

John narrowed his eyes at the writing, then a figurative light-bulb clicked on in his head. With a quick look at the tall man before him, John did a mental high-five with himself before his face took on a smug expression. "Well, _I_ know what it means."

Sherlock looked up quickly, "Really? Tell me, now, an alibi may very well depend on it." As his doctor's face erupted into a smile which seemed suspiciously _gleeful_, the detective's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

"Well, I think it'd be better if I simply _showed_ you what it means."

Still wearing nothing but his towel, the shorter man moved over to the leather sitting chair. His friend and lover leaned back as the shorter man bent over, his hands holding the arms of the chair. Sherlock's eyes widened only to close softly as he felt the first brush of lips against his own, soft as a feather. "John, what-"

"Shut up; I'm giving you a _demonstration_," he ordered and Sherlock was unable to form a coherent reply as his top lip was caught between John's before being bit lightly. "Surely as a _scientist_ you can appreciate the premise…" the curly-haired genius whimpered as his ashy-haired doctor tugged more out of him; he could feel everything but saw only red mist behind his now tightly closed multi-colored eyes.

Sherlock tasted strawberry, soapy water, mint and _John_. He felt a rough unshaved cheek scratching on his pale skin but he couldn't care less because it felt -tasted- sinfully deliciously. There was an exquisite terror of losing control and Sherlock couldn't care less because he was lost in the raging need for everything; for John.

Though his limbs felt fluid he reached up and grasped still damp shoulders the younger man's thumb stroked fleetingly over the scar blemishing the left; it was the older man's turn to shiver and groan. The kiss deepened and Sherlock's lips parted instinctively, giving way to a flood of new sensations. There was the smooth taste which caused the most expensive of delicacies to pale in comparison; there was the velvet soft movement of tongues like silk on skin. The head which held more facts and technique than many could dream of went gloriously dark as Sherlock gave in to the _only_ man who knew how to make him _dumb_ with need.

John could feel the fingers tighten on him and _God_, that felt good. It all felt good, brilliant, just all around _hot_. If his body was any warmer the leftover drops from the shower would simply turn to steam.

Moving closer he tilted the angular head in his hands, forcing that beautifully long neck to stretch upward. He could feel himself brush against the posh shirt beneath his own bare chest; it made him want to rip it off the thin body it clung to. He could taste the gasps of the man below him-or were those his own? John gave a groan as his fingers clung to the curly locks and gave one final tug to Sherlock's full bottom lip

Far too soon for the detective, his lover pulled away. They were both breathing heavily and the doctor could see a rose-colored blemish staining the marble of those sharp cheekbones. The fancy white shirt was now ruffled and those usually impeccably pressed trousers were temptingly tented… John smiled triumphantly and stood straight, though his back was now throbbing and he was sure his towel was lying anything _but_ flat.

"That, love, was a fucking good French kiss."

With that, John turned on his heel, the smile still lighting his face.

He only got past the refrigerator before he heard Sherlock spit out in a rather frustrated tone, "But _why_ would the killer write _that_?!"


	15. A Study in Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was self-indulgent at the time, and still is. Don’t worry, I’m better at poetry now. Published and all! I’ll leave this relic to days past right here for safe keeping.

"I do hope the killer shows up soon, I hate waiting and I _definitely_ hate _bars._"

Sherlock spat out the last word like it was the most disgusting thing he had ever held on his tongue; and he had drank that tea even with the accidental eye-ball floating in it. John simply smiled happily and drank a bit more of his pint. Since the detective had only limited the ex-soldier to one drink-they were on a case, work came first, blah blah blah- he figured he may as well make it last. He may very well need it if Sherlock was just going to keep _complaining_.

They were investigating the murder of young writers, specifically poets. Each body was left with notes, in the victims writing, which had on them shakily scrawled lines of verse_._ The reason for their loitering around the pub tonight was the weekly open-mic; this cool autumn night's theme was, as luck-or fate- would have it, poetry.

Sherlock watched the crowd of young adults shuffling about, discussing the boring subjects which seemed to sustain their boring lives, finding nothing particularly off about any. Many piercings and unnaturally dyed hair, big glasses and dresses… perhaps John and I should have worn disguises, he thinks briefly. John would look wonderful with a beard and a scarf… Focus.

Tuning out all the annoying chatter and the depressing drivel which the crowd was being subjected to by an all-too preteen voice, Sherlock observed everything.

John, on the other hand, simply watched for anything or anyone who looked suspicious.

He knew he could never be as good at deduction as his flat-mate but he certainly knew he wasn't a _complete_ waste of space; sometimes he helped a great deal. Like saving lives and shite like that. You know, just the minor stuff. With sigh he gingerly sipped the amber liquid. Some nervous teenage poet had just walked off the small, dimly lit stage and was soon replaced by another.

While this one also seemed a tad nervous she had to be in that more awkward age between teenager and adult; John had hated those years the most. All family fights, college tuition and unaccomplished childhood dreams. He had wanted to be a superhero… but heroes don't exist.

He wondered what the girl with the wheat-colored hair and tremulous fingers would read. What he hadn't expected was for her voice to ring out clearly, unwavering though her fingers seemed to shiver.

_"There is a lightning in your eyes and it reminds me of waking up, that first morning greeting which blinds you like a spotlight; your eyes are two dying stars and their ultra-violet irises are an explosion."_

Looking to the consulting detective beside him, the one with the surprisingly bright eyes, John wondered if Sherlock was listening. Never stopping at all, those silvery green beacons of brilliance don't ever cease their exploration; the doctor figures it's pointless to interrupt so instead he listens.

_"There is a winter grace to your touch, it is frigid and sparkling like snow in the sun. It-you- invited me in, looked feather-pillow soft but instead of resting under me you melted through my clothes and seeped through fabric to chill charm and cherish me in your cold arms. I didn't feel frozen."_

The young woman wasn't half bad and as John listened he found himself looking more and more closely at the tall body beside him, rather than the crowd around him. He remembered the first time Sherlock had held his hand, only for a few seconds, only to move it off of the door handle when John had threatened to leave after a row… it had been exhilarating. Like the tanned hand was made out of some precious metal and Sherlock's fingers had electric currents running through them. It'd been an uncomfortable, unpredictable and unarguably tempting thought to simply hold that hand for hours.

_"There is a fire-breather hiding in your belly; your words are scorching me. They mark my skin like a brand; I am yours"_

John is no longer watching the girl on the stage with the intensifying voice he only hears the words in a whisper as he stares at the curly-haired man beside him.

_"Your voice says pull my string see what falls out of my mouth; feed me sweet nothings in my ear like quarters in the slot of a vending machine"_

He wonders if Sherlock can hear the words projected through the speakers on the wall, wonders if he is thinking about John while he listens. Unlikely… The shorter man, apparently, has no choice in the matter.

_"I can't promise you you'll always love what comes out of me but I can promise what comes out will always love you like the automatic love of an ignorant child which still hasn't heard of the big bad wolf known as loss; I have no filter when it comes to unashamed infatuation, I have nothing to eliminate the feelings before they fall through the cracks…"_

The blonde man lets out a ragged breath; he hadn't noticed he had been holding the breath inside him.

_"There is no strainer for me to catch these feelings, catch them like you caught me falling down caught me before I could fall into a puddle caught me before I could fall into myself; I am a flower growing on top of the tallest hill and you are the only waters which grow high enough to flood into me."_

He sets down his glass of beer-still over halfway full- he doesn't know why he turns towards Sherlock so slowly.

_"You drown me in you and even in the deluge raining down everything I was afraid to need, I still can breath I don't choke on it, how can I choke on something so weightless?"_

His left hand was tentatively reaching towards the black suit-coat to touch the detective in some way; the overwhelming sensation of want was utterly all-encompassing.

_"You engulf me in the fire of your belly, you freeze me in the cold of your winter and you explode inside of me like the sun, filling me with candescence."_

Hand makes contact with arm and the face attached to the latter swiftly turns. Silver meets blue and they simply watch each other, studying. A killer is forgotten, a feeling discovered...

_"You drown me in you, I am drowning in you; up the creek without a paddle this aqua-blue lazy river I once floated on in engulfed in gold hues of splendor."_

Ever so slowly the hand on the arm travels upwards past bicep and shoulder to collar-bone and sinewy neck.

_"There was a lightning in your eyes…"_

Round, tanned face moved closer to the angular long one, both seemingly on their own accord. It happened too fast to stop and too slow to be unintentional; the meeting of full lips on thin had the force of a kick to each of the men's guts. It was light and fast, a mere brushing of lips to savor the sensation of texture, really. John shuddered almost imperceptibly as he felt the tip of a tongue, and not his own, on his bottom lip

_"I was helplessly blinded by the explosion. All I saw in my eyes now was you."_

All of a sudden there was an eruption of applause and for a brief moment, Sherlock Holmes had been confused, had guessed, and thought the ovation was for John Watson and himself.


	16. Johns Lesson in French

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: rating is up to M after this chapter! Also, I’m bad at French, and this was my first attempt at smut. I haven’t changed it a lot!
> 
> As always, enjoy.

Sherlock felt his grin widen as John looked at him with attractively wide eyes.

"Sherlock, why are you doing this?" the shorter man looked nicely baffled, exactly what the other was hoping for. His voice had just a touch of pleading in it; wonderful.

"Tout ce que vous voulez dire, John?" the detectives grin was now devilish. [Whatever do you mean, John?]

The taller man was taking slow steps towards his friend, who was nervously attempting to stand his ground. Ah, the bravery of a soldier…

John didn't feel a speck of brave. He felt targeted, stalked, cornered; he dared not look at the taller man. With his hands clenched and his heart racing, he damned the whole French language and that baritone voice; the voice which was now laced heavily with seduction; it practically dripped, rained, poured sexuality.

"Je parle français tout le temps, mais qu'est-ce qui est différent aujourd'hui?" His cat-eyes were teasing and John's held panic as Sherlock's words traveled lightly down his spine; it caused all the blood to travel and pool dangerously low. [I speak French all the time, what's so different now?]

"OH, No; I heard that: you said 'different'. I'll tell you what's different, you arse: you weren't playing fucking cat and mouse before and you weren't looking at me like you're going to eat me alive."

The doctor swallowed hard and tried to hold his chin up as the man wearing the attractive purple shirt raised one eye-brow suggestively.

Indeed, Sherlock thought fleetingly, he had never tried to use the French language like this before. He had been fed-up with John dancing around him like a wimpy teenager, he had been very tired, thoroughly bored of just waiting for the doctor to simply look, really look, and see: Sherlock was attracted to him. And what's more, the dark-haired detective knew that the feeling was very much mutual.

He'd done his research, though it was exceedingly tedious and surely killed thousands of healthy brain cells. In the secrecy of his room he had used his (or perhaps it was Johns? Not important) laptop to search 'Seduction techniques'. Really, he only had to type the first word and scroll down once; apparently this was a popular topic among the commonwealth. Curious, he scoured through the many pages; most meant for women. He decided that since John's experience was most likely limited to that particular sex those articles were bound to be the more helpful. Many turned out boring, telling him to 'dress to impress' [done; John had a great appreciation for the tight-fitting suits, obviously] or to take the 'apple of your eye' (Sherlock shuddered inwardly and repressed the urge to vomit) out on expensive dates [did interesting cases and thrilling trips count? He decided they would have to]… it was all stupid, irrelevant drivel that did not help him.

Then he found some interesting advice from a particularly racy site:

'Be exotic. '

Hmm. Promising.

'Make him want you.'

Getting better…

'A real woman knows how to… Give a man an erection as hard as a December icicle… from across the room!'

Finally, he thought with a triumphant smile. Something useful!

That is what had inspired Sherlock to develop this particular battle plan: cause John Hamish Watson to want desperately you by speaking French; Erection sure to follow.

So far, it was working beautifully.

"Est-ce que je vous rend nerveux?" [Am I making you nervous?]

"Sherlock…" John felt his back hit the wall of the hallways and he cursed the fact he couldn't just disintegrate right there. If Sherlock was any closer, he was certain he'd simply melt into a gooey pile of lusting mush right then and there.

"Puis-je vous faire chaud?" [Do I make you hot?]

"God, just stop," now feeling the heat of his friend's body, even though his eyes had closed, John knew Sherlock was close. Too close. The blood was pooling below the waist-band; that was the most probable reason for his dizziness, he was sure of it. He had to stop this, he had to do something; he lifted a hand to the silk shirt in front of him but instead of pushing it only grabbed hold tightly.

"Mais je me suis amuser…" it was a hot whisper loaded with innuendo and it made John's head spin. He didn't know what it meant but it sounded… just sounded like every neuron in his brain had fired all at once. [But I'm having fun]

"Et il fonctionne," the last word had the effect of a punch to the abdomen and John blew out the breath he had held for who-sodding-knows how long. He was a goner. [And it works]

As Sherlock closed the distance between their bodies, any blood left in the shorter man's limbs was swiftly pushed to his loins and still lower to his hardening erection. Hair stood up on the back of his neck as long pale fingers ghosted over the side of his face, tracing shadows.

"Arrêter d'être stupide et pense," as Sherlock leaned in slowly the foreign words meant nothing; it was their sound, their cadence, the promise they held in them which caused John's eyes to close. John had fought in a war, he had bravely taken lives to protect loved ones but it was too much effort to keep those heavy lids open. It was too much effort to fight this time. [Stop being stupid and think]

Those pale cupids-bow lips hovered over thin chapped ones, "Arrêter d'être stupide et embrasse-moi." [Stop being stupid and kiss me].

John felt Sherlock's breath like it was rain on the dry desert of his lips; he needed to relieve the pain he now felt in his lower abdomen. He needed this and he wouldn't let the attraction rule him. Sherlock was his friend; he probably had some experiment going on; turn on the flat-mate and try to determine the amount of time someone can hold a fucking erection before the blood begins to circulate again…

Giving the pained looking man a shake Sherlock looked into John's now opened eyes; the dilated pupils told of desire and arousal but there was a fear in them as well… why was John afraid?

"Idiot," the word was the same in either language but John was inclined to believe he hadn't truly heard it, that it was his imagination; long fingers grabbed hold of his hips and pale lips met his. All thinking stopped as if the batteries had gone dead in his mind.

It was hard and uncoordinated and demanding but God, John had never felt so hot. Lips fused with his; he could feel a tongue sweeping low and outlining his lip as if there were secrets hidden in that shape, coded messages Sherlock had to decipher. John moaned, and then the gasp which escaped his mouth, as Sherlock bit his lower lip none-too gently, caused it to part invitingly. Immediately taking advantage of the opening, the detective's sharp tongue, the one used to cut people down or slice their pride in half, slid softly over John's, exploring as if somewhere inside the detectives mouth lived an undiscovered taste or flavor.

Ending the connection, Sherlock smirked at the sound of John's protestant groan. Moving his mouth instead over the strong jaw of the shorter man, Sherlock reveled in the feeling of scratchy stubble on his lips. "Cesser de mentir à vous-même, John," the words left tiny fires on skin, causing a slow burn to course down the spine. The doctor's breath came out in a shuddering huff and he almost laughed as he realized the front of his pants was beginning to feel uncomfortably tight. [Stop lying to yourself, John].

Full lips kissed the delectable spot hiding between jaw-line and neck, tongue traced the curve of the bone there; it played lightly over the shell of an ear before whispering in that richly posh voice, "Je veux que tu me touches." The sounds danced a sexy waltz on the doctor's eardrum, the cool breath over the dampened earlobe caused shivers through the entirety of the nervous system; John gasped and, as if he could have understood the promise-laced words, laced his fingers into the mass of hair which now bit and sucked at the corded muscles of his neck. [I want you to touch me].

Sherlock moaned lightly as his hands tugged up the horrendously patterned shirt, exposing hard, tanned chest. Plunging under the annoying garment he spread his palms out wide, feeling ridges of scars, feeling the bumps of ribs and the tightening of tantalizing muscles. There was also the feeling of an erratically beating heart… this is why he slowed. This was John; something, someone, worth taking cares with. "Je te desire," he said quietly against one blushing cheek, hoping his words of longing were as true and honest sounding as they felt. "Je te desire," whispers against closed eyelids, Sherlock moved still closer till their bodies brushed against one another; the slightest of touches with the effect of a bomb. "Je te desire." [I want you]

John's hands were no longer exploring Sherlock's mass of hair but gripping; he dragged the bowed lips back to his own and tongues went back to battle, a war for dominance. He felt the hands on his hips tighten, fingernails digging into skin in desperation. John bucked at the electric sensation, breaking the kiss as his head fell back against the hard wall. The taller man pushed up against him, the moan torn from John was almost pleading as he felt Sherlock's own arousal roll against his own. His cock was throbbing, awake and aware and he hadn't been this turned on in… the train of thought was lost and replaced by lights and bells and whistles as a hand rubbed against the zip of his jeans suggestively.

A long, pale finger traced an outline around the pressing muscle, as if he were mapping out an exotic new world. Closing his eyes, John could feel soft, teasing kisses trailing down his throat to his collar-bone. Breath played lightly at the skin as Sherlock whispered, voice deeper than ever, "apprends-moi à se sentir, John..." Quickly unbuttoning the front of the shirt with impatient fingers, Sherlock traced the lines in John's chest with tongue and touch and kiss. Thin fingers moved over ribs which caged heaving lungs, traced the lines of battle-wounds… John gasped as Sherlock kissed each rib, made each scar feel like a trophy with only his lips worshiping them. [Teach me how to feel, John…]

"Sherlock… God, I need-" he was interrupted as an unmanly whimpering sound ripped out of his tightening lungs; Sherlock's nipping teeth left a pleasing red mark on the defined hip of his doctor and, as John looked down with half-closed eyes, his efforts were rewarded with an arched back. Taking the hint, the silver eyes never left the deep blues as careful fingers make quick work of zip and button, pulling both trousers and pants off at once.

"…effacer toutes mes pensées," Sherlock's voice ran over the inside of John's thigh and the older man didn't care to stifle the surprisingly imploring exclamation which answered; he could have died there with no pride left and been happy. […and erase all my thoughts]

Sucking the skin between naval and groin the detective felt a tremble as he moved lower, the body before him erupting into gasps and unintelligible whispers and strangely arousing profanities. Sherlock's hand rubbed teasingly over the throbbing length before him. John's hands fisting in the curling brunette hair; he rocked his hips uncontrollably, feeling those long dexterous fingers wrap around his aching cock.

Stroking roughly, Sherlock could see John on that ledge of control. He wanted to see the ever composed man fall, wanted to see him let go. Licking the head teasingly, he tasting salt and sweat and the pure taste which could only be distinguish as unadulterated, uncensored John. The combination was better than any aphrodisiac. He took a deep breath before placing hot kisses up and down the length, "ah, John, vous êtes ma toxicomanie; je t'aime, je t'aime..." [You're my addiction; I love you…]

"Fuck, Sherlock… I'm almost…" John never wanted the torture, that slow burn, to end but he felt the tightening, knew the impending orgasm was threatening to erupt at any moment. He felt a tongue- Sherlock's fucking genius tongue- run a slow journey up the length of his cock and John could swear he saw stars as he threw his head back intensely, his hips thrusting outwards to meet it. The sensation as the younger man took John's entire length in his mouth was violently arousing and he barely had time to register his breaking before the blinding orgasm raced through him.

Sherlock lapped at the remnants of John's fall. He smiled devilishly up at the man who was still gasping for air. "Encore une fois…"

John let out a ragged breath which ended in a laugh. "Encore, huh? You fucking… beautiful, infuriating man you're going to kill m-"

He was cut off suddenly as Sherlock captured his lips again. John could taste an erotic mix of himself, Sherlock and tobacco.

As the taller man pulled away, his eyes reflected both danger and want; John decided he'd never liked another combination more.

The voice was a deep rumble, thick with newly found longing and barely restrained arousal:

"Mon tour."

[My turn]


	17. Jealously, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

As soon as John walked through the door, Sherlock could tell something was amiss.

_Of course_ he could tell; it was no real mystery and if it was a puzzle it was a dull one. There were clear signs; John wouldn't look at him [guilty?], he failed to say anything more than a timid, quiet hello [nervous?] and, most tellingly, there was no kiss.

The doctor always, without fail, gave Sherlock a kiss – whether it is on the cheek, temple, hand, etc. - upon leaving and coming home. At first it had been baffling to the detective; just another tediously sentimental activity the shorter man partook in. Sherlock had failed to notice exactly when that particular habit had taken hold of him as well. He had decided since that it wasn't terribly tedious after all.

Today, though, the routine had been broken. This could _not_ be allowed.

"John," the detective gauged the response to the call: his lover had jumped at the sudden sound [lost in thought]; had hummed brokenly [noncommittal response, avoiding speech]; hadn't bothered to turn around from the stove where he had put on a brew [afraid?]. This was becoming annoying.

"Tell me."

John knew an order when he heard one.

Still, he didn't feel terribly joyous at the thought of having this conversation… "I was… _attacked_ today. At the office..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow inquisitively at the jumper-clad back, "really?"

Walking to his chair John took a long drink of his tea – wishing desperately it was something stronger – and swallowed hard. "Mm, yeah. Nothing big. Just a confused… intern…" with a tight lipped smile, the doctor brought the mug up to his lips once more.

"It looks more like you were kissed than attacked."

John succeeded in chocking on the tea he had just drank and proceeded to cough harshly before sputtering out, "Sherlock, what-"

"Oh, John, give me some credit. The right side of your lips along with the corner is unnaturally red in tint, suggesting lipstick being wiped to the side. Your face is also blushing more than usual, you're acting nervous and you've avoided any kind of interaction with me since arriving." The voice dropped another octave, "Now that we have the evidence in order, would you mind telling me the specifics of this _attack_?"

Staring at the intense silver eyes, which seemed now as deadly as red-dot sight on sniper rifles, John could feel his heart racing. Why? It wasn't like he had done anything really wrong.

Quickly, and perhaps a bit desperately, John explained: the new intern Wendy had been flirting with him incessantly for about a week and while he had tried to kindly putt her off, she had failed to take the hint. It had gotten a bit heavy the last few days but with no real consequence; then she had asked him to help her go over some files...

Sherlock thought even John could have seen the goal in that age-old strategy, but he decided sharing that opinion might have been a bit not good.

He waited patiently as the doctor finished his story, informing him that _yes_; Wendy _had_ affectively jumped him and attacked him with a kiss. John said he had immediately sat the young lady down and told her he was already in a relationship, with a man for that matter, and she had taken it very well. She had apologized and promised that it would never happen again.

The expressionless detective wished vehemently she had been thoroughly heartbroken.

Having finished the tale, John dared a glance at his lover. The angular face was blank, lying atop steepled hands. This _could_ have been taken as a good sign but the intense eyes were narrowed and the ashy-blonde man could feel the all too familiar heat of them almost leaving burns on his skin. He was surprised when the deep voice rumbled out, "and you're going back into work tomorrow, are you not?"

"Ahh, yes… I've got surgery in the morning, but-" John's had a speech ready to reiterate the point that the hormonal intern had assured him, had indeed promised, that it would not happen ever again.

Unfortunately, John could only sputter, staring with wide blue eyes as Sherlock jumped off the settee and, quick as a cat, moved to kneel in front of the shorter man.

What the…


	18. Jealousy, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reminder of the M rating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild smut

"…_Fuck_, Sherlock."

The detective had attacked John's throat before the doctor had time to even set down his tea. The tea that was now seeping into the floor.

Long, dexterous fingers grasped tanned hips and that sharp tongue was now licking a long trail up to John's ear to nibble there suggestively. He could feel the vibrating deepness as Sherlock said, "I'm going to mark you." The confident lips nipped at the sensitive spot below John's ear. "So everyone knows…" there was a moan and John could have cared less whose voice it was; he just never wanted this wonderful aching, the utter bliss he was slipping into, to stop. "…You're _mine." _

The mug fell to the floor unnoticed as hands were lost in dark curls.

John gasped as Sherlock bit the base of his neck, _hard_. God, that was good, it was brilliant; the slight pain of teeth breaking blood vessels was incredibly hot, causing a friction, a shiver on the nerves hiding inside him. The same nerves which were transmitting trembles and shivers straight down to his growing erection.

With a gentle hum, the bowed lips sucked at the reddening spot, kissing the marks which teeth had left on skin.

Twice more he repeated the process and twice more it resulted in the blooming of lovely purple and red splotches; they looked fascinatingly like splattered blood. Which they essentially were, in retrospect.

With wet, open mouthed kisses Sherlock plotted a map on those corded muscles, feeling his blogger whimper as teeth tugged at jawline. He was the only cartographer allowed to study this terrain.

With another suck on the neck of his companion, he was satisfied; the detective leaned back on his heels and smiled proudly. "That should do nicely," and with a congenial pat to John's knee, he twirled away in a flurry of dark curls and dressing gown flaps.

Still breathing heavily, John blinked in confusion before he realized _no_, Sherlock _wasn't_ joking and they were really done. Closing his eyes tightly, – repeating silently that strangling his flat mate was _indeed_ a bad idea – he tried desperately to push the arousal down, stuff it in a corner and forget about it… but the dull sting of his neck was fucking _hot._

He needed a bloody wank.

Almost jogging to the bathroom, John closed the door tightly, stripping out of his trouser and his now damp pants. As he ran the water and waited for it to heat, he glanced into the mirror and saw three small, circle bruises now spotting a line down his neck. Gingerly, he lifted his hand to outline one, feeling the heat of the blood, the hard pulsing of his heart. It was incredibly erotic, to have been territorially possessed and marked for the world to see…

Then John thought of the infinite amount of eyes the bruises would draw to him tomorrow, the gossip they would spark, while at work. Though he supposed it was the point of the whole thing, he was more than a bit peeved at Sherlock. He admitted to himself secretly that a good percent of that anger was due to sexual frustration.

"Three, Sherlock?" He yelled, "Was three of these _really _necessary?"

Out in the kitchen, Sherlock smiled and rubbed a hand over his own growing erection; he was positive John hadn't retreated into the bathroom for just an innocent shower. He thought longingly of that muscular frame, the movement of strength under his fingers as he kissed his way down his lover's chest… Closing his eyes with a deep breath, he began stroking his aching cock.

Sherlock replied on a trembling whisper, "It's a three patch problem."


	19. Have You Seen My Ghost?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title inspired by “Weighty Ghost” by Wintersleep.  
Enjoy!

The day his best friend had died, John Watson hadn't returned home.

He figured he had had a good enough excuse for not returning to the flat, not when he knew that…

Not when he knew he'd have to explain to Mrs. Hudson why he was crying, why his hands were bloody, why... Why he looked dead.

He didn't want to see her face when she found out the answer.

Lestrade had tried to talk to him, asking what the hell had happened but John's throat was clogged with a wretched mix of anger, grief and disbelief. He'd seen the cold dead eyes of his friend and damned them; damned his own fingers as they failed to find a pulse in the cold dead body. John had just stared at the ground, that unforgiving mass of concrete that held the drying blood.

Instead of returning to where he knew he'd find unfinished experiments, half-finished violin compositions and an empty leather chair, John simply walked.

He walked till he couldn't feel his legs anymore, wishing it was his whole body going numb and tingling painfully; anything would have been better than that rotten feeling vibrating through his body.

Sherlock had left him alone to return to lifelessness; to return to his ghost-like state of being.

John tried desperately not to feel betrayed.


	20. Sick of Those Goddamn Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the same song as previous.  
Maybe if I can stay awake i’ll publish all 62 chapters tonight haha.

The day after his friend had died, John Watson still hadn't returned home.

He was still walking blindly, no thought towards destination. It was like the map had been lost, the GPS failed, the sun no longer following the patterns it always had; there was nothing to steer him towards anything. He had lost his compass, his North Star had exploded and he was too disgusted with everyone around him to bother asking directions.

Not that he knew where he was going.

He wondered where his body would go if he simply left it. Not physically, but consciously. Sherlock had always deemed out-of-body experiences utter rubbish but John wished desperately for one now. He didn't want to remain in this aching mass, this torturously living thing. It was a cage now.

People shuffled past him, talking about the weather or gossiping; now John truly knew what it was like, feeling complete and utter resentment.

He hated how everyone was so oblivious to the loss, too dense and unobservant to realize the world was darker than it had been…

John had never hated clouds before but, as he looked up at those cheerful white bundles, he passionately wished for them to turn grey or black. He wanted rain to baptize him; cleanse everything.

Right then, amnesia would have been a fucking blessing.


	21. A Ghost Just Needs a Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A third part following John’s healing from the Reichenbach fall. Enjoy!

It took John nearly two years to return home.

He hadn't returned to 221B Baker Street immediately; it had taken three days total of walking and trying to eradicate or exorcise his feelings. He found he couldn't do it;, he couldn't erase the images or the thoughts beating at his temples. He wasn't some genius who could just delete the utter depression which had festered, hot and heavy, inside of him. It felt like his whole body was numb to the world.

There was only one genius who could ever help him forget his psychosomatic ailments; only one man was worth running for when all he wanted to do was limp or stop moving entirely.

Now, as he woke, John breathed in and then when out slowly, savoring the feeling. Now he felt the life move through him like a ballad. Getting out of my bed he walked to the bathroom, and looked sideways into the mirror.

Only a month ago, he had been a walking ghost; merely acting out living like a bad mime. There had been nothing in the broken mirrors looking back at him then. Now he saw himself, which was as simply comforting as the feeling of connected palms and tangled fingers. He had found his home again, and really that's all a ghost needs. A place, a person, to haunt.

There was only one man, one genius, who could ever fix John. Only one man was worth the trouble of haunting.

"John, come back to bed," the deep rumbling voice, the one he was still getting used to hearing again, sounded groggy and full of sentiment.

It was poetry in vibrating baritone; John decided that sound was the only form of therapy he had ever required to recover. The short man got into bet, his arms falling around the lithe, pale body. He had waited two years to be put back together again by this curly-haired, infuriating man.

He decided as long as he had a body in his arms, a body with a beautiful pulse, he would get better. As long as he had this home to haunt, he would be better.


	22. The Case of the German Drinking Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I played this with a friend once or twice. Didn’t end like this chapter though, haha.  
Enjoy!

"John, it is really impossible… highly un…likely, I will ever be able to do this correctly."

"Oh come off it. Stop your whining and choose; it's a fun game!"

"It's not a game, its fifty-fifty chance!" then, for some reason John couldn't understand, the truly drunk detective burst into giggles.

Watching the terribly childish sight, John smiled dreamily as he decided he enjoyed Sherlock's giggles. Even if they were fucking weird and uncharacteristic. Hearing them coming out of that gorgeous posh exterior was like seeing Mycroft smile. It was just bloody strange and rare. Though he'd rather the giggles any day.

He held up the deck of cards once more; "Pick, you complete nutter. Red or black?"

Composing himself, the curly-haired man looked deep in thought; as if he could stare at the cards long enough and they would become transparent to him or there was some kind of mark which could tell him the color through deduction. John swore he heard a distinct humming coming from that pale, tempting throat before the younger man exclaimed, "Red!"

Flipping over the card, it was a ten of spades. A black ten of spades. "Oh, bad luck mate. Drink up."

Sherlock pursed his lips, picking up the shot glass which was filled generously with amber liquid. He downed it quickly, fire trailing down his throat. Taking the deck from his colleague, he asked intensely, almost seductively, "Red or Black, John?"

Looking into those brilliantly lit pools of silver-green, John could practically feel those eyes undressing him. It was arousing, even in his drunken stupor. Putting his hand on the trouser-clad knee, he leaned in close, he whispered the word with confidence, with just a bit of challenge: "Red."

Staring straight at those hypnotically emotional eyes and swallowing hard, Sherlock felt his fingers slowly flip the card… before he had a chance to direct his attention towards the outcome, John's lips captured his.

It was sloppy and as uncoordinated as kisses got, but the hazy-minded genius could forgive his intoxicated lover for his lack of finesse. This wasn't really the time for grace anyways. They fought for dominance, both biting and sucking at one another's lips. Tongues did battle and twin moans were the spoils of war.

Diving the hand that didn't holding cards into John's ashy hair, Sherlock could feel the spikes brush across his fingers; he wondered briefly if one could get fingerprints off of ones scalp. Definitely something to experiment with.

"John… the card."

They looked down simultaneously, bumping heads. Hardly feeling it through their thick fog of inebriation, they both gazed upon the flipped card in Sherlock's hand.

It was a queen of hearts. The red queen of hearts.

With a whoop and a proud smile, John filled a pouting Sherlock another shot.

He had a feeling tonight was going to be fucking brilliant.


	23. The House Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitty kat is back - Copernicus!

Green held onto icy silver in the staring contest of the millennium. Both were narrowed and unwavering; the latter intensely challenging, the green lackadaisical and almost mocking.

It infuriated the detective and amused the cat.

Sherlock had had argued with John about the utter nonsense which was lying in a beam of sun, a little orange ball of mangy wilderness. The fact he felt the inkling to pet the beast was also annoying.

In the end, the younger man had lost that particular battle. Not that he was given much of a choice.

John had threatened to throw out every single experiment. And Sherlock knew he would. The ashy-blonde often complained about some innocent jar of disembodied fingers or the run-of-the-mill jar of eyeballs…

Perhaps Sherlock could leave the window open nonchalantly or give it some kind of sedative which stopped its heart momentarily thus successfully tricking John into thinking it had-

There was a vibrating mass stretching itself against his leg, striped orange, warm and… annoying, really; even if it was… surprisingly pleasant.

Giving a sidelong glance towards John, Sherlock watched the short man making tea as a pale hand reached down, running fingers through the short fur.

A loud purr erupted from the feline and Sherlock, much to his surprise, missed the small smile playing on the doctor's lips.


	24. Hot Chocolate; Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

"Sherlock, c'mon out! It's snowing!"

With a grumbled reply, the curly-haired six-year old put on his best sneer. He stared down at his black snow boots, the ones that made him feel like a pirate. Right now though, the skulls seemed to be laughing back up at him…

…Or he could have been mistaken. It was more likely the laughs of his friend as the blonde boy frolicked in this wet, sticky substance Sherlock disdained. It was too cold, it caused his nose to run and that – it – was annoying beyond measure.

John, on the other hand, absolutely loved the stuff. The cold was invigorating; it made his blood heat and made him feel vitally aware. It was brilliant. He ran onto the whitening sidewalk, yelling to his friend as he went.

Looking back, John only had time to see Sherlock's face turn panicked before he felt his foot slip and his head collide with the concrete.

Later they sat huddled together on John's sofa, sharing a large soft blanket Mrs. Watson had put around them. Sherlock was talking his ear off about the dangers of hypothermia – with someone so uninterested in snow, he had an immense knowledge – when John's mother came in with his favorite: hot chocolate. He had told her to give Sherlock marshmallows, but none for him.

Sherlock's eyes were wide as he held the striped mug in his small hands. John coughed and looked over to his friend. "She'lock… what's wrong?"

"I've… um… I've never had this. Mycroft doesn't cook and… I never really go outdoors anyways so…"

John's blue eyes were wide in disbelief, like he had just been told that his dog Gladstone could fly. "You have to try it! It's really good and the marshmallows are sweet… since you like sugar you should like it!"

Sherlock was suspicious, he looked between his mug and John's, observing; "yours doesn't have any… You don't like sugar… it makes your stomach hurt?"

A bright smile erupted on the blonde's face, "Yeah, I shoulda' figured you'd guess that. Try it, go on."

Returning the smile apprehensively, Sherlock brought the steaming liquid to his mouth. It burnt his tongue but the slightly melted white sugar cooled it. He held the taste and tried to savor it as John looked at him expectantly. It was… well, it was surprisingly good.

"I like it… it's… nice."

John gave another smile, giggling as he looked at his red-cheeked friend. "You shouldn't keep that you know… it doesn't look very good."

Blinking confusedly, Sherlock's grey-green eyes narrowed. "What?"

His friend pointed at his face, "your marshmallow mustache. Makes you look old."

The darker-haired boy licked his upper lip and tasted the light sweetness. Looking back down at his mug, he decided that while snow was intolerable… hot chocolate wasn't all that bad.


	25. The Pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cats are fickle and sleep in the most annoying places...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild sexy times.  
No cats were harmed in the making of or in the content of this fix, of course!

There was an exciting rush at getting thrown against a hallway wall, being kissed like the cure for cancer were hidden inside your mouth and the heat vibrating off your body the last source in the world. It was an extremely elated feeling like… well like a high, almost better.

Then the young detective felt his lip painfully bitten before being quickly sucked into submission; felt his heated erection grinding against the abdomen of his lover… he decided it was indeed better than that artificial rush he had craved years before.

There was a heady thrill that came with falling with someone –pushing someone – onto a bed and biting their neck like a teenager in their first drunken snog. Every sound which erupted from that long, graceful line of muscles and tubes caused John's heart beat to stutter and skip as if he was suffering from arrhythmia.

He didn't give a shite that it was incurable.

Clothes were quickly lost, forgotten like trivial facts or the solar system; niceties were thrown to hell like self-preservation or gossip. Hands scathed skin and raised mountainous regions of goose-bumps, crafted out of mole-hill nerve endings; creating landscape with only teeth, tongue, lips and hands. It was fast and hard but when that pale body arched under the touch of calloused hands on sensitized skin, like a record slowing they now played at a 33bpm speed.

Pants turned liquid and flowing, gasps for air and kisses turned drowning. Strong fingers brushed curled brunette hair lightly against a pale jaw; Sherlock shivered and gasped involuntarily. Chapped lips made contact with a broad collar-bone, kissing, licking and sucking; drawing out a moan from John as he felt the trembles run through both their bodies. There was a slide of naked skin, sweat and sex permeating the air in a delicious mix…

It would have been perfect if Sherlock's hand hadn't collided startlingly with a sleeping ball of fur, thus causing said ball to screech; this caused a chain reaction. Jumping cat led to jumping detective which led to the doctor being effectively pushed off the bed, landing hard on the wood floor.

Sherlock gave John a mocking smile as the shorter man glared at the cat - the lazy animal now sleeping on the floor - and informed his lover, "you're the one who wanted to keep it."

Turning his glare to Sherlock, dark blue eyes dilated once again. Ruffled detectives were become more and more attractive... moving with a speed he had forgotten he possessed, John picked up the cat, successfully locked it out of the room and returned to the wonderfully warm body.

Using his teeth and tongue to draw a moan from that lovingly bruised pale neck, his voice rumbled against Sherlock's skin and the detective felt the smile:

"Idiot."


	26. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally some Mystrade! They needed a meet-cute. I never wrote very much for this pairing but it was always a favorite.

Giving a sigh of frustration, Greg Lestrade watched as Sherlock walked off. Of course he wasn't really in shock, he wasn't stupid. He had seen the younger man looking at that doctor fellow just now just as he had seen him before in 221B. They watched one another with some kind of uncomfortable intensity, like they were either about to knock each other one or... Greg felt weird making the connection and calling it 'attraction'. He chuckled a bit as the orange blanket was tossed into the window of a police car, then began talking with one of the police men.

Sherlock had already told him most of what had happened in the classroom and while of course that kind of sick and twisted game the mad cabbie had been playing was important, there was also the matter of that gunman. Crack shot to the Serratus muscle, puncturing the heart; Lestrade wasn't even sure if he could have made that one from another building, through two windows. Had to be someone with a professional background, possibly military like Sherlock had suggested... Donovan walked over and began throwing around conspiracy theories she and Anderson had already cooked up; to them it was obvious Sherlock had done it. To them, it was always obvious Sherlock had to have done it. No wonder the man was such a prick to them, they kind of asked for it.

Tuning out both of his coworkers, Greg looked across the street to see the detective and his doctor talking with someone else. Someone who was even taller than Sherlock, wearing an even fancier suit; he looked to be along the same lines as the young consultant just doubled.

Lestrade watched the tall man watch the pair walk off, saying something to an attractive woman next to him, maybe his secretary (she was certainly on that phone enough). More than a bit curious, he said his apologies to the now completely ignored policeman and the annoying Donovan; within 10 paces he was standing at the line of yellow tape. Now that he was closer he could see the man was not only tall like Sherlock but bore a striking resemblance. While the cheeks were softened with age and the hair was slightly thinning, it was an attractive face with expressionless green eyes which Greg found oddly magnetic. The showy suits gave an air of richness but he thought that even without the suits the obviously important man would be intimidating as fuck. Still, he was curious and this crime scene had already been worked out.

"So who might you be then?" Greg tried on a small smile.

With one trimmed eyebrow raised judgmentally, the man in question glanced quickly and unabashedly up and down, inspecting the inspector apparently. It made Greg decidedly uncomfortable, but he straightened his posture all the same.

"Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade. So nice to finally make your acquaintance; Mycroft Holmes," a thin-lipped smile appeared on the engaging face while a hand stuck out from the long body; Greg looked at both suspiciously.

"_Mycroft _Holmes? You mean there are two of you?"

"Yes, it would appear there are," the elder Holmes' smile wavered almost imperceptibly as he dropped his hand. "Though I quite like to think of myself as slightly more… amiable than my brother."

Greg narrowed his eyes but decided to withhold judgment. "Yeah, well… What're you doing here anyway?"

With a turn of his head, Mycroft answered rather crossly, "Needless brotherly concern, as fate would have it."

"Well, you grew up with him; don't see why you would have expected a thank you," looking past the grey suit, Greg could see the faint shadows of the newly formed pair going off to God knows where. He was confident that doctor fellow – John? - would keep Sherlock out of trouble. Or at least keep him alive.

Looking a bit surprised at the statement, Mycroft's eyebrows shot up creating lines on his forehead which Greg found strangely attractive. "Yes, well, one can hope…" For the first time Mycroft _really_ looked at the DI. Silver hair cut short but stylish [appreciates style, not to the point of putting it above comfortablility…], his face was tanned giving an air of youth that should have been false but combined with the unshaved shadow of a beard it seemed only ruggedly handsome […]. Mycroft stared for a few more seconds before the man in question coughed awkwardly. The taller man saw the cheeks had taken on a suspicious colour which almost looked like an unmanly blush.

"Yeah, well… I better get back," Lestrade started to turn, cursing himself for acting so… weird, before a noise sounding suspiciously like 'ahem?' had him turning back to the posh grey suit.

"Until next time, Detective Inspector," holding out a hand _again_, Mycroft tried a small smile.

Returning the smile warily, the silver haired man took the hand and released it just as quickly. With a cough and a mumbled goodbye, he turned from the tall, green-eyed Holmes thinking, _what the fuck was that?_

Watching the obviously frustrated man walk briskly away, Mycroft turned to his assistant – today she was Anthea – and gave her a new assignment. "Raise his status to B, active."

"Sorry sir, whose status?"

"That Detective Inspector… Gregory Lestrade."


	27. Hot Chocolate; Adulthood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be careful, kids. Innuendo ahead.

"There's no point in getting pissy about it, Sherlock. It's not my fault you fell."

The comforter-clad detective sneered at the remark. No, it hadn't been John's fault he had slipped on a patch of ice thus falling into an annoyingly placed pile of snow but he certainly hadn't helped by _laughing_. True, the older man had quickly recovered from his poorly timed exaltation but not enough to resist rubbing his hand all over Sherlock's wet, freezing hair which then caused the cold to seep even further into the pale skin and frigid blood.

When John had finally realized he may have been being a bit childish, the doctor had ushered his friend into a taxi and went straight back to their flat. Hypothermia was unlikely but the possibility danced lightly in his mind as he ordered Sherlock to strip, to which the taller man had smirked and – keeping up with the silent-treatment game he seemed to be playing – mouthed "People will talk".

John felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips before he realized the warm feeling in his stomach was getting... warmer. Instead of smiling he looked away from his now shirtless flat-mate and cleared his throat. "I'm, ah… going to get you a blanket." With that he turned and left the room briskly, missing the epiphanic expression erupt on Sherlock's face.

Now, as John brought him the steaming mug of hot chocolate – complete with two large, bobbing marshmallows – Sherlock know exactly how to play this game; sexual frustration seemed like a lovely consequence for the juvenile behavior the doctor had displayed.

Taking his hands out of the soft blanket to take the drink, the brunette allowed the cover to fall unnoticed onto his lap. Well, unnoticed by him; John's eyes, on the other hand, followed it down. He turned and sat opposite the pale thin man in his large red chair, staring into the dark liquid which rested unblemished in his own mug. Glancing back up, he saw Sherlock watching him intensely, almost predatory.

The light eyes never wavered as one long, pale finger touched the already melting sugar floating in the chocolate liquid, then lifted swiftly, drawing out a trace of the hot substance. Lifting it up to his lips ever so slowly, Sherlock licked the white, stickiness off his finger; the urge to smile triumphantly when John's mouth hung limp was nearly overwhelming.

Not yet ready to end it, two fingers now scraped on the melted substance, a generous amount of melted sugar piling on the tips. All the while watching his thoroughly bothered doctor, Sherlock lifted his coated fingers and deposited them into his mouth; he gave a healthy suck and decided the sweet taste of sugar nothing compared to the satisfaction of seeing John inhale and cross his legs to hide his growing arousal.

The speedily recovered man allowed the now undeniable smile to play upon his lips before taking his first drink.

John rose and turned to the kitchen quickly, taking a deep breath to try and calm his rapidly rising libido. He deposited his now cool drink into the sink before closing his eyes tightly. _He's messing with you, don't let it get to you, don't… _he looked back at his friend.

Sherlock felt the burn on his tongue mix with the saccharine taste of the marshmallow. As he brought the drink back down he knew there was a trace of the white left on his upper lip. His tongue moved, slowly still, out to retrieve it.

Swallowing hard, John forced himself to look away. "Right, well I… am going upstairs. Yell if you… need me."

Indulging himself, the detective took a hearty sip of the warm drink. It tasted extraodrinary. Sherlock frowned a bit as his own erection twitched annoyingly. _Well_, he thought uneasily, _this is certainly new._


	28. Two Minutes on a Ark Bench

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love second-person perspective.   
Enjoy!

You've never realized how much could really occur on a park bench in twenty minutes. How many mountains could be moved and seemingly unclimbable hills scaled in brown oxfords and long wool coats with upturned collars. The breeze of Autumn's fingers play patterns on your cheeks and comb through your hair, a seasons greeting in September. You breathe in the crispness, breathe back out a version melted in a mix of warm personal gases and minty toothpaste scents. Trees chitter with birds, squirrels chatter with chipmunks and you are deaf to all but the mantra: breathe in, breathe out.

The bench feels hard and unforgiving, but the body seated beside you is a sweet and sour juxtaposition. Soft and inviting, yet as complex as the labyrinth. Except this wonder of the world is filled with everything except a murderous monster. He overflows with everything but evil, the leftover something in Pandora's black box; the yang without the yin, an infuriating embodiment of all those stupid clichés preteens worship.

Strangers walk by you unseeing, unassuming. How could they possibly infer that your lungs have suddenly stopped working, your throat has seized up, your tongue has lost the ability to produce anything but dryness? How could they honestly realize all that, just from the way your body had stiffened, your head resting on the wooden planks behind you? It wasn't that they were just unobservant; they couldn't know, had no possible way. They didn't know him so their ability to know the precise feeling of falling in love with this man was impossible.

The way to tell him has caught in your throat.

The man in question seemed to be completely unaware of your slow asphyxiation as well, though the proximity between the two of you seems the likeliest reason for it. His breathing is hardly noticeable under the layers of clothing, it is as if he is miming a statue, but always willing to break position at any point just to surprise you. Which he does. You jump slightly as he begins to talk in that low baritone about some interesting thing that happened this one time in someplace exotic, but to you, the words are meaningless. The places he speaks of are no longer the fairytales or the novelties they once were, the only thing exotic to your ears now is the soft, the hard, the light and the heavy tones and timbres that slip in and out of his voice: The worst kind of hypnotizing: there is no special snap, clap or magic word to stop this spell.

His words dig up from his lungs to burst off his tongue as naturally as a seed digs up and out of damp, rich soil to break into sunlight. Phonating through vibrating vocal cords which cover either side of his larynx, you could hear the breaths he takes as your eyes close; drowning in the smoldering lullaby pounding in your ear drums.

You wish it was that easy for you to just get the words out, then suddenly it is.

A flooding is beginning in your lungs, a torrent of verbs, nouns, pronouns, articles, adjectives fill you till you have to open your mouth and shakily whisper the most important combination you know; the one most conclusive and encompassing. You don't register it but your colleague, companion, friend does. He acts as though you had just screamed it-for a passing second you are afraid you truly did- and his piercing eyes are bright and wide; spotlights filled with confusion. His slim head is cocked to the side lightly, questioning.

"What did you say?"

You breathe heavily. In. Out. You repeat yourself in a gloriously slow, exceedingly laborious breath.

"I… love you."

He looks to the rusted brick sidewalk, silver eyes searching for some kind of response. He leans back and you lecture yourself with your eyes tightly shut. You reprimand yourself, put yourself in a mental corner with a muzzle and throw away the key. You're about to get up and walk away, too embarrassed to even laugh it off and proceed to apply a small-talk Band-Aid over the internally bleeding wound. But then you hear the slow bubbling of his chuckle and your head snaps up to see his face smiling at you. He looks like everything.

You lean back with a disbelieving smile, looking down at your unclenching hands. You feel his arm fall around your shoulder. His voice holds both adoration and amusement as he says lightly to you, "Your feet don't touch the ground, you know."

Twenty minutes on a park bench never meant more to you.


	29. To Avoid Hypothermia...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

"Fuck, Sherlock, when we get out of here-"

"John, must I tell you again to keep your voice down? The point of a stake-out is to not being detected by the one whom we're staking," the deep voice was an octave lower than normal as the kneeling detective spoke in a rushed whisper.

Taking a deep breath, the silenced man counted to three in his head, reminding himself that punching Sherlock Holmes was probably not the best idea right now. They were in the middle of the woods, waiting for some bloody slow Russian diplomat to make a shady deal with a Slovakian Prince, outside some deserted cabin. Unfortunately, neither detective nor doctor had anticipated the freezing-as-all-fuck weather.

Seeing as how his half-hearted threat had fallen upon decidedly deaf ears, John decided instead to try and reason with the man beside him. "Sherlock, if we stay out here much longer we're in danger of hypothermia. You more than I, since you refused the jumper. Your damn scarf isn't going to be much use and you can't turn up a coat collar to look cool if you don't have your fingers." Raising his eyebrows expectantly, the shorter man could see the cabins dim light playing on the shaded cheekbones of his colleague. It looked like the slightly flickering orange light was dancing over those slashing features, a slow movement which begged to be touched.

Sighing loudly, Sherlock's silvery-green eyes rolled upwards exaggeratedly. "Fine," he replied tightly.

With a triumphant smile, John looked back out beyond their cover, thinking his colleague was finally going to give up this waiting... then he heard a rustling beside him. He turned to see the shivering man stripping of his long black coat. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"We're going to exchange body heat. Come on, take off your jacket, we're wasting time," with that the trim black eyebrows rose impatiently and the shivering intensified. "John, I do believe my risks for hypothermia are heightened now that-"

"Jesus, Sherlock. Give me a minute will you?" knowing now that arguing was going to lead nowhere fast, John took off his jacket and moved closer till his jumper-clad shoulder met the thin white silk of Sherlock's. Swallowing hard on the pleasure which came from that radiating warmth, he pulled the ever-present wool coat over both their huddled bodies.

To his surprise, the detective moved still closer and rested his head on his shoulder. John smiled a bit at the amusing thought of Sherlock Holmes cuddling with him. He was just thinking of a way to put it into his blog without it sounding too romantic or weird before the deep voice rumbled out, "doesn't this normally work better when the individuals in danger of hypothermia are without clothing entirely?"

Crashing down from his honestly innocent train of thought, John could practically feel the small smile on those bowed lips. The thought of being naked with Sherlock, with his best friend and flat-mate… was a bit too agreeable.

A bit too tempting.

He gave a cough before saying stiffly, "No, Sherlock. Just… no."

A small smile had indeed played upon the lips of the detective before he turned his head closer into his friend's neck. Inhaling the mixture of scents which played there, he let his eyes close for a few glorious seconds. Perhaps it was a bit not good that Sherlock had known all along this boring Russian diplomat would take a fair amount of time to appear. He didn't especially care at the moment about propriety.

Hearing John's quick inhale and savoring the feeling of a fleeting tremble, Sherlock let his mind go blank – if only for a mere second – before he turned his eyes back to the cabin before them. His head still resting on the strong shoulder, Sherlock said dismissively, "you're right. People might talk."

Giving a small laugh, John said lightly, "they do little else."

Sherlock allowed his body to relax momentarily before a figure emerged from inside the cabin; the Russian diplomat.

Finally.

Pulling his coat off their bodies, he threw it on as quickly as he could before leaning in close to the still dressing man beside him. "Come on, John," the dark blue eyes met the excited, icily coloured ones. "The game is on."


	30. A Study in Sentiment- Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too tired to post all 62 tonight. I’ll finish posting the rest of these tomorrow!

If there was one thing Sherlock would never admit to anyone, it was how wonderful he found John's penchant for sentimentality. Usually it was a boring, ridiculous and utterly intolerable crutch which the young man avoided like the plague; it was the flag of the losing side, the motto of the ones who hurt.

Sherlock, being a sociopath – albeit high functioning – often looked gladly and readily past all forms of this emotional hindrance. It was avoidable. Or had been, before John Watson had come limping into his life like the missing integer in some life-changing mathematical equation.

Only a month before, he would have found a blank space there; now there is a living mass lying beside him. Short and ashen-haired, muscled and full of everything he lacks, Sherlock opens his eye to find his lover, his doctor, his friend still asleep beside him. For a moment, Sherlock just studies. No observing, no analyzing, just watching the steady rise and fall of the man's chest; the rise and fall of a slow tide.

Now, as the morning light penetrates his sleep-induced unconsciousness, the dark-haired detective opens a dusted eye; looking upon the living exception.

Kissing someone awake had always seemed to be a boring, ridiculous and tedious sentimental habit to Sherlock.

That was before he had John Watson in his bed.


	31. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avert thine eyes, young ones. Things get steamy.  
Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has smutty content.

"Sherlock, I'm back."

John entered the flat, the early morning light expecting to find his friend and colleague sitting at his leather chair or spread out on the couch reading some boring book about ash or something. Instead, the doctor came in to find neither to be true; Sherlock didn't seem to be home at all.

Walking through the living room to the kitchen, he found it surprisingly clean. Sure, he had only been gone a day but it only took Sherlock about an hour to have their counter bloodied or burned. He'd popped in downstairs to see Mrs. Hudson, ask her if everything had gone well while he was gone; nothing but lots of stomping and fussing about, she had told him. It was better than bombs and gunshots.

Knocking softly on Sherlock's door, John received no reply. He opened the door slowly, peering around the corner to see an empty bed. "Hm…" looking back down the hall then back into the empty room, he sighed. Must have gone out_, _he thought. Taking out his phone, he texted quickly 'Where are you?' not really expecting an answer. Probably at the morgue ignoring Molly for the company of cadavers. Giving a small smile at the thought, the ashen-haired man went into the bathroom and striped off his clothes, putting on the shower.

The water ran down him enveloping him in hot and cold all at the same time; his face was hot with the steam but as the water hit the back of his neck in that one spot, it made his body shiver in freezing heat. He ran shampooed fingers through his hair, mint scented soup over the lines and ridges of his muscled body. Holding his breath and closing his eyes, he let his face fall under the stream directly. It was like being under water, except all the water was rushing down on you. Perhaps it was more like being below the surface of a waterfall.

It was over quickly though, army habit. Not bothering to get dressed, he threw on his blue robe and walked to his room as he rubbed his damp hair with a towel.

Going into the bedroom and closing the door behind him, he looked up and stopped in his tracks. The hands which had been holding the towel up dropped mid-air as John sucked in a breath.

The morning light poured through the window at the farthest side, illuminating the bed in a kind of foggy blue light which would hurt the eyes upon opening. Left slightly open, it let in a gentle breeze and the sounds of the waking city around them; the cars and footsteps of the common wealth below was a dull noise behind the sound of John's own heartbeat in his ears.

His eyes were glued to the middle of his bed, where a dark mass of curls was starkly visible on the plain white sheets. One hand rested under the angular face, an almost innocent position like that of a child who hadn't heard of the boogeyman yet. The pale length of torso connected to the body was spread out like a cats, lazily yet authoritative as though he was claiming ownership of the expansion. John could make out the outline of angular hips and long legs under the mercifully placed thin sheet which covered his… _friends_, lower half.

Steady breathing could be seen in the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, which meant he was, thankfully, still asleep. Moving as quietly as he possibly could – perhaps quieter than he knew he was capable of – John moved to the foot of his bed. The pale face was lit with that ethereal morning light, dark eyelashes outlining the fascinatingly shaped eyes. Like a cats, truly, angular and slashing. Everything about the man was sculpted, thought John fleetingly. Everything about him was so bloody erotic and interesting, so tempting and…

John gave a heavy sigh as his eyes ran over the gorgeous man in his bed. Sherlock had probably been going through the older man's drawers, exploring for the hell of it, and gotten tired. Simply meant to take a short bit of sleep, Christ knows he gets little to none most of the time. This was someone who could have anyone he wanted, bloody walking sex in a button-up shirt. Why'd he ever want a battered army doctor with suppressed PTSD and a bad addiction to thrill?

Taking the chance, the shorter man sat on the side of his bed carefully. He had barely moved the mattress but, even in sleep, it seemed Sherlock was observant as ever, even in his sleep. The younger man stirred slightly, grunting. He didn't seem to wake, as far as John could tell, but those bowed lips parted slightly. Suddenly, with the effect of a sucker punch to the abdomen, there was a breathy whisper from those lips, "John…"

He was about to turn and ask the man beside him what was wrong, then he froze, realizing what had just happened. Sherlock had said _his_ name. In his sleep. In a not-so-innocent way, for that matter.

Turning to face Sherlock, he watched as the ever-composed detective opened his mouth again and sighed, his eyes blinking fast. He watched as those full lips smirked groggily, and a hand raised to trace the outline of John's jaw. Apparently Sherlock was still drugged by sleep because the vitally aware and awake man above him was truly flabbergasted as he felt the smooth, long fingers holding his jaw, pulling him down.

Soon John was close enough to feel Sherlock's sleepy, shallow breath on his lips. The older man's tongue peeked out to trace his own lip as if trying to taste that expulsion of air. His tongue felt dry, his blood felt hot and his stomach felt knotted and tight, as if he would explode right there just from-

"John…"

The train of thought was interrupted as he felt – tasted – his own name on his lips. He groaned helplessly and hoped beyond hope he hadn't ruined it. Months of fantasies, of sexual frustrations and questionable thoughts all came to a head and shattered in the striking force of this one moment in a mid-morning sunbeam, through a cracked window that needed washing. It all paled, fucking bleached, in comparison to the heady rush John felt course through his body as the hand – still on his jaw – pulled down.

Everything was blue and grey and fog and light as lips met, thin against full. The latter parted slightly with a sudden intake of breath while the others were frozen in place. Was Sherlock still sleeping, was he aware they were actually kissing, was he dreaming, or were they both dreaming? John decided if this was just some kind of dream, he didn't want to ever wake up. He'd happily live in this version of reality, the one where Sherlock's hand moved into his short hair and pulled possessively, the one where his tongue licked at John's bottom lip, the one where this sensation of being devoured was a drug.

John's eyes opened as their lips parted, and he found himself looking straight into icy ones so dilated the blackness nearly dominated the multicolored iris'. They looked aware and alive; John was, for the first time since he was at war, scared. Scared for Sherlock to realize what had just happened and push him away, to realize who he was and deny the feelings, to realize what this was and stop it.

He almost cried with relief as Sherlock sat up, grabbing the tanned face with both hands and bringing their lips together once more.

The kiss wasn't so much soft as it was hungry; Sherlock's lips, tongue, teeth were ravenous as if John was a buffet of only his favorite delicacies. The doctor was overwhelmed, bringing his hands up to the pale skin of the taller man's shoulders and holding on as though they were the edge of a cliff and he was about to fall.

Sherlock's hands, on the other hand, were on the skin of John's chest, those long fingers running over muscles and ribs, scars and light, dusty freckles. Everything was novel, everything made him want to kiss the bits of newly discovered skin. The detective had woken from one dream into another and he was sure he would not wake up from this one. His tongue explored the inside of John's mouth, silk and velvet, all things soft and warm lived there. He wanted to see if his friend was like this everywhere.

Moving his mouth from thin lips to the corded muscles of John's neck, Sherlock groaned as he felt those strong hands grip his shoulder tighter. Bowed lips peppered soft kisses over collar bone before the sharp, sarcastic tongue licked a line inside the hollow of the throat. He smiled against the tanned skin as he felt the vibrations of John's ragged exhale. His long, nimble fingers brushed over a taut nipple and pinched there, eliciting a gasp from the opened mouth. Quickly replacing fingers with tongue, Sherlock laved the hard nub before nipping it lightly. To accompany the second gasp, he was rewarded with John's heartbeat hard and erratic under his mouth and the rock hard erection brushing against his abdomen.

Lips connected once more and now both men groaned. John had gotten over the initial disbelief by now and was running his fingers with surgical precision over the pale chest before him, trying to draw the same trembles and tremors which those clever hands seemed to drawn out of him. He licked his own line around Sherlock's mouth and felt an insistent pulling on his arms. Realizing it was Sherlock removing the dressing gown, John quickly removed it.

Skin moved against skin, heat radiated and festered in any area left between. Laying back down, Sherlock brought John to stretch atop him. Never breaking contact, he kicked the blanket still covering his lower body down to the foot of the bed, releasing his own erection. Running fingers down to the small of his doctor's back, the detective pushed down till their cocks brushed against one another. Both men moaned at the heady sensation, the feeling of muted fireworks in their minds, in their loins. Sherlock captured John's lips once more as he reached between then and began to stroke their cocks simultaneously.

John gasped, "Sherlock," before he threw his head back at the sensation of a thumb flicking over the heads teasingly, spreading pre-cum generously. He began to move with the strokes of Sherlock's hand, his own fingers lost in the dense mass of curls, still holding onto that cliff; now he wasn't so much afraid of falling as he was of shattering completely.

He tore his mouth away to hide his lips against the long pale neck, kissing it feverishly before simply moaning and rocking against it weakly. John felt those oh so scientific and precise fingers around their cocks, stroking generously, enthusiastically, fucking hotly. Everything was becoming blurry as John felt his orgasm creeping up, felt Sherlock begin to shake below him. He was gasping out words into that pale ear next time him but he couldn't be sure if it was even English, he couldn't hear anything at all besides those deep moans and the pounding in his head. Suddenly and without warning, Sherlock's fingers rolled over the heads of their cocks and John lost what slippery grip he had held.

Closing his eyes tightly, he saw reds and purples and felt full of everything all at once; moaning out his lovers name in time with his release, John felt a hot spurt on his own chest and realized they had shattered together. It made him want to cry and smile at the same time.

Instead he collapsed onto the sweaty body below him, careful not to lay his full weight onto the skinny frame. He kissed lazily at the now reddening spot. John hadn't realized he had bitten. "Sherlock…"

There was a hum from the long, pale throat and John felt long, pale fingers tracing circles on his back. It tickled and trembled all at once. "Sherlock… I'm sorry if I, uhm… I don't know, hurt you or something."

The fingers stopped moving and John bit his tongue. He felt Sherlock move till they were face to face, one look of worry watching a look of confusion. Silvery-blue eyes studied the tanned face. Finally a small smile crept upon those cupid-lips. “Impossible."

With a smile and a sigh, the still completely baffled man lied back down. He thought to himself, if this was all he got, if this was the only moment he would have, he could accept that. Just don't let it end yet. He kissed the corner of Sherlock's jaw and just held onto the taste, the feel, the everything. Trying to make it last.

Running a hand down the ribs and muscles lying next to him, Sherlock wondered how long it would take to convince the older man to let him move into this bedroom permanently. As he ran his palm over hip and felt a tremor, he decided it wouldn't take long at all. Thoroughly satisfied and surprisingly happy, the dark-haired man placed a kiss on the soft brow of his lover.

"Missed you, John."


	32. Frustration No. One - Coat Collars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 221B! These are so fun, if you’ve never written one please ty it. Such an enjoyable way to challenge yourself.

John looked on as Sherlock did it.

For the hundredth time today, like he bloody well knew it annoyed him.

Turning up his damn coat collar to look cool, hiding that long line of skin that looked temptingly exposed in the sunlight of a cloudy day, almost translucent. Certainly ethereal. There were dark shadows on the lines of it, the muscles as it moved. It was sexy, tempting…

It was damned inviting.

And he was constantly covering it up.

Sherlock said something about being cold, walking on as if he truly didn't know what he was doing, as if he couldn't see the frustration written all over the drawn brow and dilated pupils.

That frustrated John all the more.

As they rounded a corner, the doctor grabbed hold of that damned coat, pushed the lithe body into the nearest wall, and succeeded in attacking that throat.

It was fast, hard; frankly John didn't give a rats-arse if it hurt. Teeth left marks, lips were bruising, tongue laved teasingly; he marked up that lovely expansion of blank canvas, painting with purple splotches. He stopped when he heard the moan, felt it on the tip of his tongue.

Stepping back quickly, John looked up at the flustered detective, now complete with blemished neck.

Now this... was much better.


	33. Frustration No. 2 - Layers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently when I wrote here I was on a sexy-times spree. Hope that’s cool with y’all!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing too steamy. Implied steam. Lukewarm smut!

They entered the flat silently, each taking their turn to send heated looks at the other. Anger was coursing through the veins of the shorter man with the clenched fists; annoyance radiated off the pale skin of the taller man with the rolling eyes.

Both could see the emotions in the other as if they were made of translucent glass. Both knew what was there, and neither could deny the splashing need that mixed into the boiling chagrin, like alcohol and water; you couldn't tell them apart.

Sherlock could see past those clenched fists to the more internalized battle John Watson was fighting. The detective could also tell which side would come out on top and, with that sure knowledge, he took charge.

Grabbing the dark jacket of his friend, the he wrapped long fingers around the lapels before pulling them – him – forward emphatically, mashing their lips together with a hungry growl that sounded hotly animalistic. There was no shock, no question as to why they had ended up in this particular position. The inevitability of it all screamed and wailed like a banshee, warning that their resolve was dying.

The only question in Sherlock's mind was why John insisted upon all these preposterous and disdainfully many _layers._ The clothing – undershirt, over-shirt, cardigan, jacket, etc. – was only keeping them from feeling that overwhelming comfort of being wrapped in each other. It was frustrating, annoying, vexatious and- _oh._

Synonyms became hard to produce when John's lips, teeth and tongue made work of Sherlock's neck and collar-bone. Knees weakened and it became hard to stand, let alone maneuver one's self across a messy flat to the nearest bedroom or flat surface – not to mention simultaneously working to remove another's clothing.

Desperately pulling on the sleeves of the red cardigan, the back of Sherlock's shin collided with the coffee table.

The events after that were a bit foggy to the uncharacteristically surprised detective. He remembered John's sharp intake of breathe, strong hands holding his back through a half-removed cardigan and falling sideways onto the floor instead of backwards onto the aforementioned table.

Suddenly he smiled as he realized the brilliance of what had just transpired.

"Clever, clever John…" Sherlock kissed the man now lying atop of him, looking at his disheveled dress – half-unbuttoned shirt now untucked from unbelted pants, half removed cardigan dragged off his shoulders – and flicked open another button on the grotesquely patterned shirt. "The floor will do nicely…"

Blinking in confusion, John looked down at the detective with the red-tinted cheeks. Really he had just been trying to save the coffee table… but as he closed his eyes, feeling Sherlock tugging at his clothes, he decided not to mention it.

Then he chuckled lovingly as Sherlock began to scold him in that sexily deep voice:

"But really John, these layers are bloody ridiculous."


	34. It Feels like Winning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this with the idea that Mycroft has different offices he uses depending on the day. Because he’s the government right? Why not?!   
Sentimental Sherlock is best Sherlock, fight me.

"Really, we aren't doing visits at my _work_ now, are we? Surely they haven't passed a new law without my being aware of it, have they?"

Not looking up from the important files which lay before him – of _national_ importance, thank you very much – Mycroft knew well enough who would dare disturb him without so much of a blink at the danger of doing so.

Only after hearing the scoff did he look up. The green eyes regarded the tall figure as he sauntered into the office, much like a hungry mongrel may sniff about for scrapes or an annoying child might bother an older relative simply to remind them they're alive.

As his little brother sat down loudly onto the brown leather chair, Mycroft was inclined to believe the second was the more accurate.

"Don't be ridiculous Mycroft. Even if they had I'd ignore it, obviously. I'm here for a…" Sherlock sighed heavily, looked away quickly before rushing out, "…a _favor_."

With one manicured eyebrow raised, Mycroft asked the question silently.

In response, the man across the desk gave an exaggerated rolling of his silvery green eyes and again let out a ragged sigh. "John Watson needs his security precautions raised."

An hour ago, when he had received the text, '**Where? – SH**' Mycroft had simply replied **'Brown office. Not now – MH'**.

He _had expected_ Sherlock to realize that meant he was _busy_.

He _should _have _known_; Sherlock would ignore him.

Each brother took their turn deducing the other, as was their nature. Woke early, didn't sleep, ate cake, ate a biscuit, crises in Korea, unsolved case, late night at the office, late night- _Oh_. The realization dawned on Mycroft after mere seconds, and immediately he went through a discomforting mix of emotions. Worry, fear, apprehension, surprise and concern all flickered swiftly before being doused out by the frost of indifference took hold.

"Well, it really was inevitable wasn't it? Shall we be getting that overdue happy announcement by the end of the week, then?" He smiled venomously and Sherlock narrowed his eyes threateningly.

Grating out the words he tried to mask what he knew Mycroft had already glimpsed at, "he is imperative to the _work_ therefore if he comes to any harm-"

With a scoff, Mycroft weaved his fingers together and leaned forward. Sherlock knew what that meant, it was predictable: he was going to receive a lecture.

"Now, Sherlock, I am certain I don't have to remind you but none the less we both know that sentiment-"

Sherlock stopped listening, tuning Mycroft out easily as he had done many times before. Instead he turned his thoughts to the events of last night which had prompted this ever-so-nearly regrettable visit.

He remembered the taste of rainwater on his lips, on the lips he had kissed, lips which had kissed him. He tasted it on the skin he bit and sucked, on the collar-bone he had run his tongue over. Trying to catch all the tiny droplets like they were some kind of taste he was starved of, powerless to resist; as if they were some kind of holy water he needed to worship. It should have been uncomfortable, the wet clothes plastered to their disproportionate bodies. Instead it was incredibly endearing, irresistibly outlining every nook and cranny of their parallel physicality's. It made Sherlock want to scale those shoulders like an elusive mountain, explore the muscled chest like a newly discovered temple and run his fingers down each rolling hill created by rib-bones.

He remembered the touch of light fingers weaving into his black-licorice hair, tangling themselves in like he was searching for buried treasure; they dug up moans and gasps. Sherlock distantly thought that these hands – hands he had seen save lives, kill criminals or hold hands – were the ones he had always wanted on him. They seemed to sap the strength to stand from his body, they called to every goose-bump to rise, they screamed to every nerve to sing and his body was helplessly lost among the noise. When they ran down his bare back, they traced the pale white spin like it was a rare coral reef, where things of beauty and mystery live; some kind of remarkable piece of art never before created; something truly novel. Sherlock felt they moved as slow as the sun yet as fast as lightening all at the same time; either way he was burning in the brightness they left branded on his skin.

He remembered feeling loved.

It hadn't felt wrong, though at times he did in fact feel uncharacteristically vulnerable. John Watson had quickly wiped that feeling away with his words of praise, spoken from lips Sherlock never knew to tell a lie, not to him. Never to him.

No, it hadn't felt wrong at all. It had felt more right than any drug, any high, any pastime had ever felt before. It felt ingrained deeper than veins, like John had scrawled his name into Sherlock's bone-marrow, forever there to rest inside him. Forever in his body.

So when he finally paid attention to Mycroft, he had decided to tell John just that.

But first, he needed his unfathomably annoying brother to shut up.

"-is a chemical defect found on the _losing_ side, brother dear."

Sherlock smiled slowly, almost gleefully, "really, Mycroft? Because to me, it felt like _winning_."


	35. Testing the Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mature content ahead.   
*plays ‘Let’s Get it On’*

It was 4:52 in the morning, and Sherlock had not been asleep for nearly 3 hours.

Approximately 2 hours and 53.75 minutes ago, his eyes had successfully adjusted to the darkness.

Approximately 1 hour and 28.15 minutes ago, he had successfully counted every crack in his bedroom ceiling, every shirt hanging in his open closet and every brick on the bit of the opposing building's wall he could see through his window.

Approximately 4 minutes and 37 seconds ago, he had grown incessantly, infuriatingly, destructively _bored_.

Giving a hefty sigh, he shifted to the side and once again tried to remove his arm from under the torso of his doctor, lover, and friend. It had fallen asleep long ago but Sherlock decided that if John was comfortable, he could endure the numbing sensation – even if it was a bit not good to let your significant other obstruct your blood flow for such a significant amount of time.

Though he had studied John's body numerous times, it still irked him that the dark blue bed-sheet had been pulled all the way up to the shorter man's neck. Sure, Sherlock's memory could generate a mental image of those strong shoulders, muscles torso, fascinating scar and sexily sculptured hip bones, could picture it quite well actually; the way that back arched off the bed when he licked at John's Adams-apple, the way the ribs vibrated the moans as the erupted from the hard body, the way those hips moved in time…

Sherlock looked down, annoyed as he realized he had gone and given himself an erection. At 4:55 in the morning.

Briefly he debated whether or not to wake John – bad idea, definitely bad, the man was like a grumpy bear if you woke him before 7 – but decided he valued his life a little too much for that plan. Eyebrows drawn, he stared down at the tented sheet, before the wonderful idea popped into his head:

He'd self-administer and, if John just happened to wake up, he would be too aroused to get angry.

Grinning, he slowly pulled his dominant hand to his already twitching cock-

-Then promptly remembered that a certain ashen-haired, erection-inducing, bloody _heavy_ doctor lied on top of it.

With a frown Sherlock brought his less dominant hand up to his chest and, closing his eyes, conjured the image of John touching him.

In the past this had been done only once every few months, when his body decided one night to switch its libido on annoyingly. Back then, he hadn't thought of anyone or anything, just pumped himself through till his body went stiff, mind going gloriously blank, and he had ejaculated pleasingly. It certainly wasn't entirely unpleasant. Now, he had the memories of John Watson commandeering every available space of his mind, filling up wings in his Palace and worlds in his heart.

Now, he imagined it was John's hands running smooth, light fingers down his collar, nerve cells dancing under skin. Imagined it was John's index finger which ran teasingly over his nipple, causing him to gasp. Imagined it was John's short nails scraping down the center of his chest in an erotic line, leaving a breadcrumb trail of goose bumps to follow. Eventually his hand – John's hand – was running through short, course hairs below the sheet. Imagined it was John who ventured further down his lanky torso.

Eventually the fingers wrapped around the base, slowly stroking up to the already leaking head, then back down again in a torturous movement. Sherlock tried to replicate the specifics pressure of John's palm, the speed at which he timed his strokes, the way his thumb always flicked over – _Oh_.

Mind going gloriously blank with brightness, Sherlock's strokes on his aching cock became erratic and desperate, like a man dying of nerve-overload. He needed to let out this excess energy, these overwhelming feelings which bubbled in his abdomen like water, like a fire, like a frustrating throb of white hot need. He needed to release and as he gasped for air – imaging John biting at his neck or thigh, running that clever tongue around the circumference of his cock's swollen head – he suddenly heard the exact same man drowsily mumble his name like a whispered gold upon a beggars lap; he _had_ the release. The orgasm tore through him like a saw, opening him up and cutting him in half; he moaned deeply and gasped for air, biting his lip till he tasted copper-laced blood.

Blinking fast, breathing heavily, he looked straight ahead for a few more seconds, just letting his heart rate fall again from that gloriously pounding rhythm he always seemed to have after satisfaction. Chancing a glance to his side, he saw the figure of a deeply sleeping John and sighed in relief.

After wiping himself off quickly with a spare napkin, Sherlock turned to wrap his free, now tired, arm around his lover's torso. Moving his body to spoon the warm, calm one he burrowed his nose in the space between John's head and the pillow below it. Inhaling the mix of scents wafting off both, he closed his eyes contently.

Suddenly, as his mind grew groggy and sleep-filled, as his heartbeat slowed and grew sweetly melodic, he had a passing thought which led to the painfully obvious realization. He considered it for a small moment then decided to analyze it further another time, perhaps one at a better hour.

Even so, he felt compelled to at least tell John about it, inform him of the new discovery his mind had just made involuntarily; he wanted to test the words on his tongue as if he were sampling something exotic or foreign, though that wasn't far from the truth itself.

With a yawn and slightly slurred words, Sherlock said it, admitting it as much to the man beside him as to himself. "I love you, John Watson."


	36. Don’t Leave Me Alone with my Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aw, this one is sickly sad and sweet. Adorable babies.

When he came back to the land of the living, there were three things he was immediately aware of. The first was that his head bloody hurt, like someone had kicked him repeatedly without mercy. The second was that his chest felt inflamed, like someone had lit magnesium inside and just let it sit there burning, no air-holes to release the chocking smoke.

The third thing John Watson noticed as he regained consciousness was the weight of a head on his upper thigh.

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking fast as the brightness of the room invaded the unaccustomed irises, and stared for a moment out the window. It was raining, small pitter-patters on the glass like the tapping of fingers on a table. Eventually, he looked down to the figure next to him.

Sherlock was wearing a black shirt and his suit-coat was thrown precariously behind him, like he had taken it off in a rush. John could see the small remnants of dried blood and wondered briefly why Sherlock had been injured. Then he remembered it wasn't his friend who had been the injured one.

John remembered then the searing pain in his chest, the worried call, the damp ground hugging him as he fell to it and finally, as he heard the sirens, just before a deep blackness took him, long fingers with a honey deep voice wrapping around him like a cocoon.

He realized suddenly Sherlock had stayed with him. Waited for the ambulance, at least, holding him and saying soft, unintelligible things. Even though there was a killer on the loose, one which had almost made John himself the next victim, even while the case was still unsolved and the game still on, Sherlock had stayed with him. The incredible contradiction to all that he was in response to John's injury was… almost unbelievable.

As he looked at the head lying on his thigh, John stroked those dark curls. He took one of those pale, dexterous hands in his own and looked down, watching as he weaved his fingers between his friends.

He felt the hand in his own tighten and the head lifted suddenly. Sherlock's eyes were wide and John was nearly taken aback as he saw the fear and panic in them, then nearly melted as he saw those replaced with joy and relief.

John tried to smile assuredly but before he had a chance, Sherlock brought his head down to rest it in the nook between John's shoulder and neck. The bed-ridden man felt those fingers unweave themselves from his own and he felt momentarily disappointed at the break in contact. He then felt them on his pulse point and realized with a tremble in his heart what Sherlock was doing.

With a sigh and a small smile, John wrapped his free arm hesitantly around Sherlock's shoulders.

"I'm alive,' he whispered, hoping in somehow to solidify the fact. He felt the warm breath on his neck as his friend inhaled deeply then exhaled in what felt like a shudder.

The deep baritone vibrated on his skin. He would have thought he'd heard it wrong if he hadn't felt it as well.

"Don't ever die, John Watson."

Sherlock lifted his head and in those fascinating multi-colored eyes, John could see everything. Usually they were a wall, a Plexiglas barricade made to only be seen through on one side.

Now they were full to the brim with everything John had never expected to see.


	37. Some Kind of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow hopefully we’ll get some fluff soon, am I right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depressed John.

John huddles into himself like it was a home, but he was still constantly aware of the sound of the living outside his frosted window. There was no escaping that noise of everyone who didn't want to just keep sleeping, keep dreaming, keep from getting back up and seeing a clean counter, an empty chair.

John huddles into himself like it was still somewhere he could live, but he was deafeningly aware of the lack of heat inside himself. If he lied very still he could feel the pulse points throughout his body, feel the muscles slowly melt into the bed linens like they were dissolving into clay. He'd rather become a part of this bed, this bed which smelled faintly still of lavender and ash, than go out to the world where all there seemed to be was cold and careless.

Finally the blaring of a police-car had him shooting up, shaking hand immediately moving to the bed-side cupboard that held his firearm, his last defense. Slowly the sound faded, chasing after some criminal. He felt like his being was dragged behind that vehicle, his purpose driven over mercilessly as they had passed by the black door. Passed like they had forgotten; they used to stop.

Breathing heavily, he felt the empty adrenaline leave his body like the sun left sky. Now he was cold again.

Getting out of bed he went to kitchen and passed by the scarcely stocked fridge, passed the unused kettle, past the dust-bunnies under the settee. He still wore his jeans from the night before, a night he could barely remember. Memory was a funny thing; it chooses to black-out when you want to feel happy, lose yourself in amber-drink, and is constantly taking note of the things you just want to forget.

Silently John put on his dark jacket, the one with the stitches and the patches from years of wear-and-tear from cases, years of shoot-and-stab from angry criminals who got too close.

He paused as he looked up to the hanger behind the door. He had forgotten it was there – no, no he hadn't truly forgotten, simply wasn't reminded yet of his need for it, like an addict thinks he's forgotten the needle till he sees it on the sink. Tentatively, like it would spontaneously combust beneath his fingers.

Perhaps he'd be better off if it would.

More than likely he'd only be worse.

The navy blue wool seems to wrap itself around his fingers, a mind of its own dictating its motions as it falls around his neck. It smells like warmth and feels like life, sending electric awareness through John's body.

Shaky fingers pull it up over his upturned nose, shuddering lungs inhale. This is sustenance now.

As he leaves the flat, tilting the knocker to the right as he goes, the scarf is wrapped tightly around his neck and jaw. Hands in pockets, he walks briskly towards the only place he feels the need to visit, the only person he still feels the need to visit regularly.

The skeletal trees greet him as they do every morning, wave hello in the wind like melancholy mates. A black grave stares back at him and in it he sees his own reflection. The irony of that is not lost on him.

Memory is a funny thing; a rabid animal that snaps at your bones and blood, crumbling you. But it also gives you a purpose, a job to do day by day. To remember… though the reason why is lost in translation between the heart and the brain.

John huddled into himself like it was home, like it was somewhere he could live, though he knew it was lying.

He huddles into the scarf, into the routine, into the remembering and the waiting, like it was hope because it was the only truth he still believed in.


	38. Baby, Hold Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of chapter 36.  
Enjoy!

Sherlock watched as brown oxfords walked tentatively up, calloused hands gripped the wooden railing and deep blue eyes took it in as if it were the first time.

It had taken the doctor twelve seconds to climb the stairs, as opposed to the usual eight seconds.

The four seconds told more than either wanted to realize and left Sherlock with more questions he didn't, surprisingly, want to ask. He knew if he offered help to his friend, called any attention to this obvious disturbance in daily routine - which may indicate a lack of confidence in environment or a repressed concern – Sherlock knew if he called any attention to this modification which was screaming to be organized, he'd only upset John.

He'd add insult to injury, so to speak, this time striking at Johns pride; take away this thing he could finally do on his own, without nurses calling to him or other doctors telling him to "take it easy," even if this small victory was as mundane as scaling the stairs to their flat.

Sherlock understood this, the need for self-reliance and the importance of it to John. It was as ingrown in the short doctor as the duty he feels to heal, the essentiality of thrill and the unshakable sense of selflessness. These the detective could understand, though it was merely the longing for independence he could truly relate to.

Nonetheless, he had a devastating compulsion; it was making wreckage and ruin out of the walls he had enclosed sentiment behind, breaking them down as he had broken down walls in his mind to make more room for John… this pressure within him was rewriting the rules and regulations of his heart as easily as he had redesigned the architecture which was his mind.

It had started when he had held a bleeding friend in his shaking arms - killer and criminal forgotten as quickly as the solar-system – feeling the hot fluid flow out onto his black suit-coat, staining the material while simultaneously burning the image of an injured and dying John into his mind. No, he had told himself, not dying. John could never die. He remembered this and repeated it to himself, perhaps out loud as well he wasn't sure, as he applied the pressure he knew mattered so much.

There was the memory of words; Sherlock wasn't aware of exactly what he was saying, whether it was really anything at all, but he knew the futile noise fell upon deaf ears. He had yelled to keep John's eyes open, those deep fathomless eyes which held a blue Sherlock could never classify – it reminded him of the sea in winter. Calm, flowing, yet so easily angered and made fiery. Now they looked drugged, blank. He hated that; the slipping life between John's pupils and irises.

He remembered telling John that the bullet hadn't hit any major artery, that he hadn't lost too much blood, that the ambulances response time was improving as of late, that he would be fine as long as the doctors weren't completely incompetent, that he was going to be fine. Sherlock told John that he – that they – would be fine. He forced himself to put confidence into the words. As he heard the sirens coming close, as he finally stopped cursing every memory of every deity he hadn't deleted from his mind, he leaned close to John and felt a salty tear on his lips, though he wasn't sure whose it was. His forehead on Johns, making sure their eyes were level; he told him what he should have months, years ago:

"I love you, John Watson."

Then there was yelling, people pushing him away from the world in his arms, Lestrade's voice trying to sooth him as they carried his friend into a white box and closed it in, driving away.

Now, as they walked into the flat and John stopped in the middle of the living room, Sherlock remembered the panic as he realized that white box drove away with his heart.

He never wanted to feel that sickeningly real fear again.

John was talking about stupid, silly, unimportant things life groceries and laundry when he suddenly felt a tugging at his arm and, before he could even blink or protest or breath, felt soft lips on his own.

The kiss was slow, exploring, but filled with all the pain, the longing, the love and the utter need Sherlock had felt, had just begun to realize was always there lurking deep inside his being like some sunbeam behind a cloud.

The shorter man stood still for a second but, as a tongue touched his lower lip, he closed his eyes and accepted it, reveled in it really. He tilted his head up to press harder, to try and melt into the mouth above him. He felt Sherlock's hand coming to his shoulder, gripping there like he needed an anchor. It was a tight and angry clutch, juxtaposing the light kisses he now was dashing upon his doctors cheekbones, jaw-line, eyelids and then back to those chapped lips which had so often been the vehicles for praise and adoration.

Pulling away slowly, they kept close to one another like there was an invisible short-leash, a tether tied on both ends.

"I'm alive," John said softly, the words tasting like ambrosia on Sherlock's lips.

"So am I," he replied. And for the first time in his life, he truly felt it.


	39. Honey Biscuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fold yourself up in a great big comforter of fluff, friends.  
Enjoy!

The two predators watched each other intensely, trying to deduce and infer by the slightest movement when the other would finally pounce. They did mental circles, though they never moved from their seats. They snarled silently through tightly closed lips.

Staring into one another's oppositely light and dark eyes, each pair sizing up the other, one sat in a red puffing chair, the other in blue-gray leather.

Between both, the final morsel from a batch of Mrs. Hudson's famous, to die for, bloody delicious honey biscuits.

Having gotten them this morning, each man had alternately taken one throughout the day, not paying any notice to the dwindling numbers. Sherlock's head was either stuck in a book or an experiment, John was simply putting the milk away or grabbing the jam, something was always too distracting to count the remainder and act accordingly – hide them selfishly for later.

It hadn't seemed important to count till they had ended up at the fridge at the same time, both looking inside then looking at each other. The same word flashed on in their minds like a light bulb: mine.

The battle had been a silent one, the tray ending up in the living room with them. They set it down between them, then it came to this. A staring contest, a battle of wills. Neither one was really winning, though both would tell you they were.

Suddenly, Sherlock stood up with a triumphant "ah!"

John didn't realize the word was even spoken before he had already lunged and succeeded in grabbing the object of their desire. Sherlock looked very confused, then realized promptly he had indeed lost; John had it in his silly idiotic hands. How in hell did that happen?

Sherlock made a grab for it but John pulled away. This continued till they had successfully fallen to the floor and the detective was nursing a bruising shoulder and rib while the shorter man applied a bandage to a cut on his own forearm, a frown adorned on his face. Sherlock had won, as usual, and now held the biscuit in his hands like a smug kid licking his ice-cream in front of another who had dropped theirs; the show-off sots there, eye-brows drawn, not saying a word.

The taller man with the scratched arm was deep in thought, which made it hard to concentrate on as trivial a thing as applying a bandage. A moment ago he had successfully concluded how both men could in fact share the biscuit, but then he and John had basically held a mock wrestling match. The blood was pumping and, while he knew – he knew all too well – the blood certainly should not be cascading downwards into his groin from a simple wrestling match just because they had had their bodies against one another… simply because they were now attractively ruffled, or at least John was with his messy hair and wrinkled shirt… lifting that wrinkled shirt to inspect a browning bruise on his well-muscled, impossibly sexy ribcage…

When Sherlock realized he was staring with an embarrassingly open mouth, he quickly looked down and then, a second idea popped into his head like a present from his mind. Trying to bandage himself was becoming tedious and boring.

"John, I think I need a doctor," he stated matter-of-factly, holding out his arm with the band aid in his hand.

The shorter man's emotions alternated between anger and shock at the utter audacity of the complete and utter dick before him. But, as usual, he could not deny this man anything. It was like breathing, being anything Sherlock needed whether it be doctor or bodyguard. John knew the man before him never needed a friend but still he did that just as naturally as he did the rest; it all came naturally, inbred into his system.

Taking the band aid from the outstretched hand, he carefully took the long pale arm. The fine bones and pale-as-parchment skin gave the air of fragility, of vulnerability which sometimes flashed itself across Sherlock's face, the expression John saw so little of; it was always gone before he had a chance to truly let it sink in, like a smile or a sunbeam.

He knew these arms were not in fact fragile, he could feel the muscles inside them; hard, covering the fine aristocratic bones. Many days he watched them experiment on cadavers or chemicals, watched them punch criminals or hold handguns at cackling mad men. But there was still the beauty. The fine white was blemished only by subtle constellations of freckles or soft hair then, between the wrist and the elbow, there was a small scratch just beginning to grow red. It looked like a dash of color on the white surface of an orchid.

Gently, with more precision than he might use a scalpel, John applied the band aid and then, before he could even think not to, before he could even think why, he lowered his head and rested his lips on the scratchy woven fabric. It took him a quick second to realize what had happened, to realize he had just given Sherlock's arm a bloody kiss. He decided to write it off, never mention it, ignore it's entire existence in time. So, with a deep sigh and an awkward smile, he coughed and stood before the deep rumble of his name had him looking back.

Sherlock held out half a cookie, face blank but the man in the jumper swore he could see something lingering in those eyes that looked somewhere between a smile and a sunbeam.

Whether this was a gift, a thank you or a peace offering, John couldn't be sure.

He decided later it was all three.


	40. The Morning Brings the Sun - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s so nice not having to wait for updates, since I’m literally uploading a new chapter every couple minutes, huh?   
Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for adult content

The morning light crept into the bedroom window like a haze, a fog. It rested in the air, light and mellow. There was the small sounds of a waking city, hushed tones of the morning doves hums and street pigeons coos. It penetrated ears like a distant song, quietly acoustic with flowing melody. John Watson blinked twice before closing his eyes languidly, not wanting to move from the entirely too comfortable spot he rested.

Some mornings there was that perfect balance of body, an almost liquid state of being where limbs melted into sheets and covers like they were one and the same. Mornings you didn't want to move, not because you didn't want to face the day but because you wanted to face the day from this exact position. You knew if you moved you'd lose the laziness. It'd slip past you like the tortoise to your hare. Mornings like this were few for the doctor, not because he was necessarily uncomfortable in this bed but because he was often pulled from it by a triple homicide or some particularly interesting kidnapping. More specifically, by Sherlock Holmes. In fact, as he snuggled his head further into the unbelievably inviting pillow, he rutted his nose further into the curls which laid before him and thought of all the ways he could keep this ethereal being in bed for the remainder of the day. Or at least the morning.

Sherlock's dark hair tickled the nostrils of the man behind him, forcing the blonde to turn his chin down and instead rest his forehead against the messy tendrils. They were nearly as soft and inviting as the pillow.

For a moment John just listened to the morning. He could both hear and feel the slight beating of his pulse points, the gentle breathing of his lover beside him, the cat's tail as it slaps the ground unconsciously. Simple sounds like this are things John can revel in. They juxtapose the memories he holds of hot abrasive suns, loud shouts of warning, the smells of blood and gun and death.

These mornings were simple, and simplicity was luxury John now indulged in when it presented itself.

Perhaps it was something in the air or the slight rustle of the sheet as Sherlock moved his foot subtly, but John's eyes finally opened. The dark blue irises battled the light, his eye-lids drooped slightly in lackadaisical heaviness. He saw the brunette wisps in front of him, connected to a long, arching neck which was connected to a long, lean body. The sheets cover was modest, leaving little to the imagination. John knew the slope that fell low under it was full and supple, had his hands run over it, had dug his fingers into it. He knew the arches and the muscles of this back held shadows and wonderful tastes.

John could feel himself growing warmer, getting harder, just from looking up and down Sherlock's back… the man made him while breaking him down at the same time.

He had an arm already slung around that thin waist, a possessive sleeping position that made him want to jump for joy. A month ago this wouldn't have been possible… trying to move as minutely as he could, just light enough to stir his lover but not enough to completely wake him just yet, John ran his fingers lightly over the skin beneath, the abdominal muscles which led to a teasingly prominent hip bone.

Moving his body closer, ever so slightly, he pushed his nose into those curls and inhaled the scent that was morning, ash, lavender, leftover sweat and pure Sherlock. It made Johns head swell, made him a bit dizzy. He kissed the crown softly, moving his body down so he could apply homage to that arched neck, worship those fascinatingly accented shoulder blades. He had just decided to kiss and lick every single freckle when he felt the body stir, heard Sherlock's deep moan, "_John."_

The sound of his name reverberated off of those still sleep-heavy lips, coming from deep inside a man who never said anything that wasn't important, was like a bolt of need striking through his nervous system, ending and bursting in his now hard cock. It made him all too hot all too quickly. It was like some wild thing inside him had come out of hibernation months too early, and he had to fight it off. He had to fight to keep it under control. John considered himself a solely pleasing lover, slow and teasing and drawing out the goose bumps. But being with Sherlock… everything was different.

With Sherlock, it felt like he was making love to something desperate for life, though that didn't make much sense. Perhaps it was the way that Sherlock's kisses seemed to draw the air right from his lungs, how he ran his tongue down Johns neck like it was laced with sugar and wine, how he grabbed hold to the his shoulders, his arse, his thighs as if they were the edge of some cliff. Being with Sherlock on a dial basis felt like always being at war. Making love to Sherlock, where it was only them, felt like the victory.

Trying to remain light, even with his heartbeat blaring in his ears like a foghorn and his breathing labored like he had run a marathon, John ran his hand more determinedly over the ridges of rib-bones. He wanted to taste every dip, bite every outline of bone but he also wanted to savor.

A gasp and another moan told John he was waking Sherlock up, bringing him sweetly out of a dreaming, languid state to a just as lazy state of awareness. Moving back up that finely built body to kiss and suck at that sensitive flesh which hid behind ear. His tongue peaked out to trace that crest, and now he heard a definite moan, felt the back arch against him. Sherlock was finally awake, aware. But John still wanted to explore.

Sucking the earlobe and laving at the side of that prominent jawline, feeling the bone beneath his tongue. This carnal knowledge should have blown his brain to pieces, shattered him but instead it built him up, made his body feel filled with everything… just everything. There was nothing he couldn't feel with Sherlock.

His hand was making circles on that flat chest, feeling the muscles moving under his calloused palm. The heartbeat under there was erratic and John smiled proudly as he nipped at the muscles in that white neck. His prick throbbed at the thought; he could make Sherlock's heart beat faster. He could scratch under that cold surface which the detective shielded himself from sentiment with, and cause it to melt like ice in his palm. It was like a drug; John was addicted to this power, this man, and these feelings.

Fingers graced over a tight nipple, and John swore he heard a light whimper. Slid down in a fine line to play at the hole of dipping belly-button, and John swore he felt hips buck stiffly. When those fingers began to slip beneath that sheet, feeling the first bit of that course, dark hair John knew without a doubt he had heard that impossibly deep voice whisper his name yet again.

Suddenly Sherlock turned, their lips slipping into one another, and now they were both awake, both fully aware. Both acutely aware of the wait their chests fell into one each other like the force of gravity was pushing from either side. Like there was nowhere else for them to land but atop one another.

They fell into place, fell into each other like they had been searching for years to find this one place.

And the sun only just rising.


	41. The Morning Brings the Sun - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No plot just porn, clap clap clap for the smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning; just so much adult content. It’s all sex everywhere friends! But it’s romantic and I enjoyed it.

Before there was John, this infinitely fascinating man with a disregard for proper pin-machine etiquette, who spread jam like chocolate, who wore preposterous jumpers like they were made for royalty… before John, Sherlock had never slept with anyone. Yes, of course he had participated in sexual relationships in the past, but there was never a body in his bed for more than an hour or two.

He had never slept, in the literal sense of the word, with anyone.

No one warming one side of a pillow, no one whose scent would remain longer than their physical being, no one whose breathe played on his skin in the middle of the night. No one to hide their nose in his hair, kiss his neck like it was a delicacy, have their arm wrapped possessively around his body like it had always belonged there. Before John, no one had stayed with him to do those things which now sent idiotic trembles down his body, all focusing in the base of his spine and causing his back to arch.

Sherlock had been sleeping soundly, dreaming of… something. He couldn't remember and decided he didn't want to; this reality was better than a false dream.

Johns fingers were making those stubbornly slow motions on the pale skin covering the length of Sherlock's chest, and when the calloused pads found his already tightened nipple the gasp lying on his tongue erupted from his mouth like a smoke from a cigarette. It was light and quiet but he knew John heard it, couldn't miss it even if the cars outside their bedroom window were beginning to wake like monsters sent to capture them, bring them back to reality. They'd ignore them. Eventually they'd leave.

As quickly as it began, these feathering kisses and nips John was subjecting his neck to became too much for Sherlock. The feeling of that breathe, that air from deep inside John, on his ear, on his skin, on his jaw was like the song that everything alive would sing; it was a song of wild promises, soft murmurs and cutting shivers. As quickly as it began, it was too much. Sherlock's system was overloaded, as it often was when he was held in these strong arms – by hands which had killed and protected, helped and healed.

He turned, wanting that torturous breath, those lips, that being on him and inside him. Johns lips were there, chapped in the most interesting of ways. Sherlock ran his tongue over the bottom, feeling the lines and tasting the sleep. He wanted John to feel as possessed as he did, wanted him to feel as weighted down by sentiment and emotion – so foreign, so damnably confusing – that he melted into it like metal melted in a blow-torch.

Capturing that bottom lip in his, Sherlock sucked lightly and bit, not enough to hurt but enough to draw out a groan. It made the detective tremble as if the sound itself had run fingers down his sides. John was above him now but in no way was he leading, not yet. One long-fingered hand held onto the short ash-blonde hair like a vice, the other moved up and down that muscled chest like it was searching for some secret passage-way.

Their tongues made lazy sweeps, slow waves forward and back like twin seas searching for their shores. They matched the motions of their hands as their completely individual and unique fingerprints painted one another in evidence; someone had cherished this skin and made it their own.

If someone put fingerprint powder on John's body, they would see the evidence of Sherlock's touch alone, vice versa.

Falling into one another was like drowning, the air between them had grown hot with sweat, tangible and deep. They were helpless but to gasp for it, to try and draw it in like it was something intense and elusive; electric and eclectic all at once. Sherlock's fingers traced patterns on John's hip, the muscle there tightening under the assault of firework nerve endings. He kissed the underside of that strong chin, felt the low rumble as it slid up his lover's neck.

His head fell back heavy on the pillow, icy eyes blown wide, watching equally dilated sea-blue. There was a slow moment of watchfulness, the early sun just peeking through to play shadows on Sherlock's angles, lighting his body with an almost ethereal glow that could have brought John to his knees, if he wasn't already there. When he saw Sherlock's eyes narrow into cat-like, animal knowledge and felt those dexterous fingers – fingers which had taken bodies apart, had held test tubes like weapons, had touched more dead things that John cared to remember – move against his pelvis and that course hair just below, he wanted to weep or growl, he couldn't be sure which. With a strangled groan his hips bucked involuntarily, moving his almost painfully hard cock into that palm, self-lubricated and oh so ready for release.

Sherlock had other ideas.

His fingers retracted, leaving John thinking he was truly going to cry with disappointment. Then he felt Sherlock stretch under him, lazy and slow – infuriatingly slow; when did he get so good at this method of torture? – moving his arm out beyond them to rummage through the bedside table. John was busy kissing and licking his way in and out of that perfect collar-bone, paying homage to the dip in the middle of that long neck. Suddenly he heard the rip of a foil and he bit down on the pale skin. Sherlock's back arches, brushing their hips against one another. When the man below him fell back down, John's body followed like they had become a permanent part of one another. Which, to the doctor, wasn't terribly far from the whole truth; Sherlock was in his blood as easily as the cells and the water and the oxygen, in his body as easily as muscles and lungs and his heart.

The groan was ripped from his lungs as he felt sly, unendingly clever fingers wrap themselves around him, stroking and running a single finger over the tip. The gasp was involuntary as the protection was rolled onto him, finality as well as promise.

Suddenly Sherlock was attacking his mouth, laying siege and dominating like some like of tyrannical lover; John was lost to it all, surrendered without a fight. The man had the ability to break down any kind of defense like it was crepe paper, like it was thin glass; all you needed to do was blow on it and it;d come tumbling down like cardboard. As John moved their bodies together, feeling their sweat, salty-sweet, feeling their erections rub against one another with a white-hot intensity that left him feeling urgent and wild; Sherlock's back arched once again, causing a more firm stroke of cock on cock. It was suffocating from the inside and the outside, gasps and ragged breathes seemingly the only way to inhale without choking.

John could feel himself trembling – that intermittent tremor never shook under stress, never when he held a gun, but his whole body shook now as he held Sherlock. He ignored it as he ran his hands down that lean body, feeling those ribs, hips, thighs he's kissed; John was heady and dazed from realization after realization: Sherlock let me touch him, let me kiss him, let me feel him, let me – then, with deep, satisfied groans vibrating out from both sets of lungs, he was wrapped in velvet heat.

Stroking as slow and as gentle as his body allowed, he felt himself enveloped, felt the tightness around him like some burning, beautiful vice. "_John,_ fu_-" _before Sherlock could finish his mouth was captured by the doctors, kissed hard and fast; reduced to only strangled moans and high-pitched hums with every thrust. The sound of his name said so desperately, coming from that insanely precise and posh mouth, ran marathons 'round John's mind, repeating over and over again – or was Sherlock doing it out loud?

He didn't care, couldn't think of anything but prolonging, anything but releasing, anything but time simply standing still so he could watch that ecstasy on his lovers face as he thrust in completely. When his cock made contact with Sherlock's prostate, the detective dug nails into John's arm, the other hand made a crumpled mess of the bed sheet.

"_Johnjohnjohnjohn_" it was like a prayer or a plea, perhaps both at once, out of that perfect mouth.

There was the wet sound of body on body, mixed now with the moans and sounds of both men as the speed intensified, as the pressure building within their already trembling muscles and bones. John could feel himself losing the battle to keep his orgasm at bay, felt it clawing in his gut for that torturous release. He brought one hand to the swollen cock before him, stroking in time. Rolling his thumb over the sensitized head, he watched those icy, all-seeing eyes roll back and close on a deep, laborious groan. He needed, needed Sherlock to come with him, needed to see that look of utter thoughtlessness on his constantly thinking face. John needed to see the evidence of Sherlock Holmes' complete and utter mindlessness; needed to be reminded he was the one who could affect him this way. John needed-

"Bloody hell… Sher_… Sherlock_ I can't, I'm-" he gasped for air as the orgasm ripped through his being like a bullet of almost painful pleasure, eyes closed tight. He opened them quickly when he heard Sherlock cry an uncharacteristic expletive along with his name, and leaned down to capture that opened mouth if only to taste his name on that tongue as his lover came undone and completely together all at once.

As he felt the body below him still, the orgasm nearly through and the shudders nearly gone, John moved his lips off of Sherlock only slightly, their noses still colliding at the tip as if they were afraid to break contact. Looking into those eyes that were always either green or blue or silver with quick spots of hazel, those unendingly fascinating eyes which saw every detail with stunning clarity, John was never so in love with a stare, with a soul. Kisses those reddened lips once more he said it, whispered it on a breathe with his eyes open so Sherlock could taste, feel, see, know the truth of the words and finally believe them.

John felt that morning light on his back, felt that pumping heart below his own, felt their sweat dissolve into the air to play on the breeze seeping in from the cracked window.

John felt warm, alive, like he had found the sun in a lab room of a hospital and went home with it, hadn't let it go since.

John felt it all when that long-fingered, beautiful hand rested on his cheek and he tasted, felt, saw those words he longed for whispered back to him from cupids-bow lips.

Sherlock felt all that and more.


	42. Staring Contests- Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *throws fluff*  
Only the smallest bit of arousal.  
Enjoy!

"Sherlock, why are we doing this?"

"It's an _experiment_, John. Remember the rules, you can't speak."

"But really, I don't understand how-"

"I need to find if there is any correlation between the physical appearance of someone's face and the odds of winning a staring contest. A man's life may depend on it, please _do_ try to take it seriously."

The dark blue eyes nearly rolled – _nearly_ – as John gave an exasperated huff. At least he isn't dissecting some poor mammal on the kitchen table again, the shorter man thought fleetingly. He watched those icy blue/green eyes (he hadn't decided their color yet today) as they practically bore into his soul. He was suspicious Sherlock was trying to intimidate him and, when he saw a dark eyebrow rise challengingly, he knew he was right. The bastard was trying to _win_ this stupid contest, which really wasn't all that surprise. The man would try to beat God if only to gloat about it later.

Two can play at that.

Taking the initiative, John narrowed his eyes slowly in his best bedroom stare and tilted his head slightly to the left; showing off his jaw line and his neck just the way he knew Sherlock liked it. He was aware of Sherlock's tendency to mark him up, to bite and to suck and to possess, if only on rare occasions – usually during 'senseless bouts of jealous rage', as John called them.

What the two of them were doing now had to be considered eye-sex.

It had to be compromising to the experiment.

John decided not to mention it.

He ran one hand from the corner of his jaw, to lightly outline it till he reached his own chin and lips, brushing over those just as soft and light; the way a lovers might. To his dismay Sherlock's eyes never left his own, though John knew, was fully aware, that Sherlock could tell what he was doing, if only in his peripheral vision.

With a devilish smile in his eyes, John opened his mouth to stick the tip of his tongue out, letting it make a lazy show of licking his bottom lip. He saw, in his own peripheral vision, Sherlock's neck muscles twitch almost unnoticeably. He could only assume the detectives hand was clenched, white-knuckled, and his trousers were on their way to being tented by now; same as his own.

Thought it had only been less than 45 seconds, John had seduced Sherlock's body and mind; body with his own, mind with the ingenious way he was dominating all of the detective's thoughts without even touching, without even speaking.

Then suddenly they couldn't go on; not because their eyes were close to watering, nor was it because the effort to not move was too much to handle. It was because their pants, trousers, positions were beginning to get too uncomfortable, too hot. Sherlock blinked first, an admittance of defeat. Erections and arousals were momentarily forgotten as John realized he had won. Then, because John is not as daft or dumb as the rest of the commonwealth, he realized something else.

"So," he started as Sherlock looked down, eyebrows drawn like he was deep in thought, "based on the parameters of your experiment, one would break contact when they're effected by the others physical appearance." Sherlock made some noncommittal grunt as he continued to study the carpeted floor, the stain on the coffee table, the seams and stitches of his black shoes; anything but that almost poignantly attractive face.

"So it's safe to say I affect you, yeah?"

Sherlock's eyes opened quickly – John sounded close, he had felt those words send tingling foxtrots down the arch of his ear; John sounded far too close and as Sherlock dared to look up he found John truly_ was _too close for any kind of comfort whatsoever. The detective watched as those ever-deep blue eyes swept across his face; he could almost feel them outlining his bones and muscles, dipping into the crevasse of those prominent cheeks and coming up to rest at the indent of his lips, resting there hungrily. The eyes were dilated, the breathing heavy. Sherlock was lost in the expression of it all, the complete sensory overload of that fire-wood and sea smell, the visual stimuli of an unashamedly aroused doctor, the feel of those precise and sure fingers coming around to grip his own thin forearms.

John was overwhelming.

As if he saw the flash of panic on his friends face, John pulled back swiftly, averting his stare to the fireplace, where dark shadows played in the ash. He was restless now, vitally aware of every region in his body but specifically the one below the belt.

With a cough and an awkward nod, John left for the loo. Sherlock heard the shower turn on and wondered briefly if John would be opposed to the detective joining him. Then he remembered, with far too much worry and doubt coating the memory, the strangling grip on his heart the loss of control had. He hated that he hated it, hated that John hated it.

Sherlock wanted to let go, feel his mind melt over with the slow, hot slide that was John.

But he couldn't, not yet. But soon.

There was always 'soon' to look forward to.

As he leapt off his armchair he went into the kitchen to retrieve the disembodied head from the refrigerator.

He was going to practice at this contest of staring and next time, _he_ would win.


	43. Staring Contests - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd more fluff. With the mildest of sexy times. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a bit of sexual content. Lukewarm smut.

There were times – though few and far between, mind you – when experiments did not go as planned for the genius that was Sherlock Holmes. Those rare occurrences were usually attributed to an unknown variable, a change in the conditionals or environment, or – though it truly did only happen on significantly rare occasions – when he simply did not anticipate the outcome.

Now, as a scientist and a detective, he enjoyed finding and discovering things he had not anticipated, had not expected. Most of the time.

The last experiment, the staring at John which had truly not meant to be a contest but certainly turned into one quite quickly, was one of those times he did not in fact welcome such an occurrence. A metaphorical middle-finger from the universe was what it seemed to be. Not only did you lose, Mr. Holmes, but you also let your impromptu lover/flat mate take a glimpse into that hilariously vulnerable mind of yours. Cheers, jolly good show, cats pajama's.

Except, Sherlock wasn't happy about that sudden Freudian slip of facial expression.

Not in the slightest.

So he dedicated a 27 hours to the simple task of staring. He stared at his the decapitated head (which was there for another experiment, obviously), stared at the flats resident skull, stared at the smiley face spray painted on the wall. Of course the other entity would always win because, well, they couldn't blink or look away. But nonetheless Sherlock was confident they would have, and thus confident he would win against an uncharacteristically seductive John Watson.

With his strong, hard jaw, his flowing, tightening muscles, his attractive bedroom eyes basically undressing the flabbergasted detective from across the table… Hell, Sherlock supposed, it wouldn't be necessarily _easy_. Though it shouldn't be hard either… a challenge.

He had a plan.

"John, come here; we have to try the experiment again."

"Which one is that? If you mean the one where you test the amount of time it takes for someone's arm to turn purple when blood circulation is cut off then, no. If you mean the one when you kept giving Copernicus catnip laced water to see if ingestion of the stuff would affect her heart rate, double no. If mean the time you-"

Cutting the increasingly annoying little man off swiftly Sherlock explained that no, it wasn't any of those experiments, it was the staring one. John asked if he was sure, a small grin on his face - an infuriatingly suggestive grin. Sherlock wanted to wipe it off.

They took their positions, and went to their quick preparations: John took off his cardigan, showing off his muscled physic with the patterned shirt he wore beneath while Sherlock unbuttoned the top two holes of his shirt – thus revealing in full that preposterously defined neck and collar-bone. He had also worn his purple shirt, which meant he was one up on John.

Wonderful.

The only-a-bit-suspecting man in the large red chair took a deep, nearly shuddering breathe when he brought his eyes to his companion. They hadn't kissed for the past 27 hours – John was right when he guessed Sherlock hadn't been in fact losing his mind as he stared at dead things, he was preparing for battle – hadn't really touched. Neither a peck nor a poke. It hadn't been a problem really, not till this very moment.

Sherlock had moved his chair close to Johns, was now kneeling with bended legs so he was just tall enough for John to tip his chin. So close that the doctor could practically feel the heat of the paler mans lithe body, practically feel that smooth skin under his fingers, practically hear those small gasps if only he was to grab those slashing cheeks and pull forward-

"John."

It was spoken not as a question or even a statement. It was more of an order and John was surprised as he felt the tingling of arousal fall down and center like a match lit on his lower back.

Another deep breath.

Then another.

"Okay Sherlock."

Now, it was true the detective had devised a wonderfully vengeful plan to seduce the obviously aroused Dr. Watson and torturously play coy till the man declared Sherlock was forever the winner of the contest of staring.

That plan was already in effect, had been since they had walked into the sitting room approximately eleven seconds ago.

Eleven seconds was about as long as the plan lasted before being completely tossed.

Neither knew who started it, neither knew whose hand was the first to slide to the leg, knee, thigh of the other. If you were to ask John, he'd say Sherlock. If you were to ask Sherlock he'd insist upon it being John.

Plan was forgotten the minute Sherlock realized they were nearly touching noses, that their lips were mere millimeters apart, that John's tongue had just snaked out to wet his anticipated lips. Their eyes were still completely open, still hadn't broken contact for approximately thirteen seconds. Sherlock's mind struggled to stay online as he felt that peppermint tasting breath play upon his own full lips.

Suddenly he felt fingers on his jaw bone; he felt his fingers in John's close-cropped hair. Then, just as suddenly, still with eyes open and the game still on, their lip met with a stutteringly real hunger which did in fact wipe the genius' over-active brain utterly and completely blank.

The only thoughts which protruded either man's minds was the repeated mantra of _tongue, taste, feel, bite, lick, fuck, good, yes _and _win. _Sherlock estimated their snogging (biting, sucking, tasting, tonguing) lasted for approximately 24 seconds before, with a very definite bite from a subconsciously determined detective and a very animal moan from a consciously given-up doctor, John's eyes fluttered shut.

Somewhere deep inside, Sherlock knew he won. John knew he'd lost. But as that long pale body climbed on top of the red arm-chair to join, feel, touch his lovers muscled frame, neither man particularly cared.

Somewhere deep inside, Sherlock knew he was disregarding an experiment for another human being, another man, a lover no less. But as those strong hands unclasp his belt, pulled down his zip and began vigorously stroking his hard, pre-come lubricated cock, he didn't particularly care.

Somewhere deep inside, John knew Sherlock was letting his mind step back, letting his body, his heart and his feelings take control. But as he felt that perfectly sculpted mouth leave small little blooms of broken blood vessels on his neck, felt those hips buck and that hand on his crotch grab hold, he didn't particularly care.

At least, not then.

Later, as he lay in bed with his arms around the sleeping younger man, John would remember. He would smile broadly at the realization he had this power, this gift to turn this rare specimen of walking brilliance into a ball of sexual fire, a gushing mess of soft sentiment or even, as Sherlock's heart beat against his own, into something perhaps a little more human than before… John smiled again and kissed that curled mop of hair as he came to a second realization.

He had never cared more.


	44. Cliff-Hangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve personally always hated movies with cliff-hangers because it’s such a capitalist ideal! Make the populous pay us more money to see what will OBVIOUSLY happen, make them wait years for the privilege to stroke our egos with their hard earned funds!
> 
> Sigh.
> 
> Anyway! Enjoy Sherlock being mad.

"No… no no no, no!"

"Yes, Sherlock, that is how it ends. Sorry."

John shot an amused look at the angrily perplexed detective, who was still staring at the telly as the credits rolled.

"But you can't end a film with that, we won't even know if that stupid village with the silly little weapons system – one spear, needle thing does not a defense make – especially against something as large and, though entirely unreal, deadly dragon."

John smirked knowingly. When he had put on the movie Sherlock had begun by scoffing at it, the impossibility of literally all of it, but then when that "short midget man with the hairy limbs," started exchanging words with the "well-constructed though preposterous lizard," he had perked up. Sherlock couldn't resist a good battle of wits or words. Even if it was fantastical and unrealistic.

By that John meant his lover had turned his long frame on the couch to face the movie rather than the wall. That being more than he expected, the doctor allowed those pale feet to rest on his lap.

"Sherlock, it's called a 'cliff-hanger'."

"Dull. There was no cliff and no hanging; unless you're referring to that silly bit where the short hairy midget was being saved – as if we couldn't have already guessed – the bearded oaf with the large sword."

"Sherlock. You could just say you enjoyed it"

Icy eyes met blue with great determination.

"It was…" pause for dramatic effect…

"Boring."


	45. Sparklers, Stars, Kisses and Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some teenlock to enjoy. I was never great at writing about teenagers but oh well, here’s this!

"Come on, Sherlock! It's New Years! The world is fucking celebrating and you're holed up there like some kind of naff old wanker. Come down here _now_."

"I swear John, your vocabulary deteriorates more and more with every passing year; your resolution should be to invest in a dictionary."

The blonde teen rolled his eyes at his characteristically grumpy best friend, his ever posh boyfriend. Of course Sherlock didn't want to be here, standing on the top step of the well-lit gazebo like some coat-clad king of the hill. John's plan wasn't going to work if the fucking tight-arse – and he meant that in the most loving of ways, Sherlock's behind was splendid – wouldn't cooperate.

Climbing up a step or two, a tanned hand took hold of a pale one and pulled. Successfully dethroned, Sherlock was helpless but to follow the particularly exuberant shorter young adult. John had recently turned twenty-one and Sherlock still trailed behind at nineteen but that had never stopped them from acting juvenile. Or at the very least, act childish and irresponsible. After all, Sherlock solved cold cases in his spare time and John blogged about it. Sometimes neither wore pants.

For the older boy, this night was the pinnacle of a year spent completely immersed in the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. For the younger, it was simply another night where he could smile freely, laugh heartily and appreciate the things he wasn't truly interested in such as sparklers and stars and hills.

They were on a grassy park lot, overlooking the country town below. John had successfully acquired 25 sparklers to help bring in the new-year as well as a bottle of cheap cider. The drink was foul tasting and the sparks which fell of the brightly lit sticks felt hot on Sherlock's hand but they were worth seeing the glowing, goofy smile of John H Watson. The blonde boy giggled as Sherlock waved the crackling flame at him, writing fire on the air as the speed of light played with the eyes. The younger teen couldn't help but smile back as his heart filled with warmth, even in that cold time where December greets January and hands off the calendar.

The night was completed with a strikingly clear sky, which the two boys lied down to watch, side by side. John's fingers snaked between Sherlock's long ones. Both pairs of eyes mapped constellations, though only the genius' were actually true to chart. Neither cared that the snow was wetting their backs, or that the smoke from their fiery fun was sure to attract attention.

John checked his watch for the fifth time as Sherlock began explaining the scientific explanations for shooting stars. With a quick smile the shorter boy turned to sling an arm around the body of his boyfriend; with one on either side of that angular face and a knee between those impossibly long legs, he proceeded to lean down and capture those wonderfully pink lips in his own.

Lightly peppering slow kisses, sucking ever so slightly on that full bottom lip, John could feel the gasp of breath from his companion, feel the movement of hips below his own. He could feel those exploring fingers under his wooly jumper, and when they made contact with heated skin they sent shivers down the older boy's entire body. Desperate for more skin, John pulled down the navy blue scarf hiding that column of neck from his scrutiny; there he tasted sweat and snow. It was salty and wet and made the head spin. He felt Sherlock's quiet moan on his tongue as he bit and sucked at that perfectly pale space.

Framing that Greek-god face, John tenderly kissed the reddening cheeks, the frost-tipped nose, closed eye-lids and eventually returned to that supple home of lips. With a sigh of utter contentment and joy, he whispered the sentence he had been saving up all night:

"Happy New Year, Sherlock Holmes. I really fucking love you."


	46. Detective, But Sometimes a Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is such a rude man when sick.  
Also I just love the idea of John being a foul-mouthed sort. Maybe it’s Martin rubbing off on my characterization. Oh well!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John can be a bit ungrateful but hey who isn’t a shitty patient when they’re sick? He finds his way by the end.

John was thoroughly convinced that whoever had decided to create man was either a very moronic or ironic or sadistic being. He had given them the place and tools to live perfectly well yet added in that terrible tree with the apple of knowledge so one day a fucking snake – didn't see that one coming, no not at all – could tempt a naive young lady into taking a bite. A bite of fruit was all it took to sod things up and fuck humanity over.

All because of one bad apple.

Now, as he heaved out the last bits of stomach acid and orange juice from his already screaming body, John cursed apples, higher beings, food in general and the bloody irony of doctors getting sick.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, trying to look less… panicked. "I told you to stay away from the sushi, John." He didn't like how his words were shaking, as if he were the one which had given his friend food poisoning. Guilt was a sentimental emotion. Sentiment was to be squashed, killed before it had the chance to grow and spread like a weed, extracted like-

Then he watched as the uncharacteristically pale-faced man regurgitated another bit of nothing at all and he decided to, for the first time he could remember, turn off the internal lecturing, focus only on John, and try desperately to make him feel better.

Except he wasn't sure how to.

"John, I need your help."

The man slouched over the toilet groaned, "Oi, still kind of sick here, mate."

"Yes, obviously, but John I need your help with… this. I don't exactly know how to manage this, I'm not a doctor."

With a final moment over that damnable porcelain bowl, John decided he was thoroughly finished puking; better to quit now before he started coughing out vital organs or something. He stood up and, while washing his face slowly, wondered at Sherlock's statement. Obviously he cared, was obviously out of his depth trying to deal with a 'patient'; John wasn't as dense as everyone else, the man was no sociopath. But how could Sherlock help… then, as the drops of cold water splashed against his cheeks like tiny icicles, he had a simply brilliant idea.

"Sherlock, I'd like to sit on the couch with a warm blanket."

The man who had been carefully contemplating what chemical combination would best eliminate the nasty bacteria which caused food poisoning brightened and nodded determinedly, like he had just been told he was to embark on some dangerous overseas mission. Immediately jumping up to retrieve the wooly afghan cover from his bedroom, Sherlock disappeared from the bathroom.

When the detective came into the living room he found John sitting on the long couch with his knees perched in front of him. It was a strange look, to see someone other than himself all scrunched up and contorted. Combined with his sickly complexion and unkept hair, the position made the ex-soldier look almost childlike. Something funny stirred in the pits of Sherlock's stomach and he wondered for a briefly terrified second if food poisoning was contagious.

"Sherlock?"

The tall man, who still stood under the threshold of the living room, raised his eyebrows expectantly, not trusting himself to speak.

"Are you going to just stand there with the blanket or are you going to come over here and sit with me?"

John's scratchy voice was almost teacherly, like an adult asking a child some rhetorical question. Not an order, but certainly not something one could say no to. Sherlock's black oxfords carried him to the couch, where he proceeded to throw the blanket over John and sit himself beside the sick man.

As though he were on autopilot, the curly-haired genius simply sat there, looking down. He saw his trouser-clad knees - the lines in the fabric complimented his shape when he walked, he knew that – he saw John's dark blue socks peeking out from below the fabric – those socks were soft, he knew because he had 'borrowed' a similar pair from his flat-mate just last week – he could see…

Sherlock's thoughts and deductions trailed off as he felt the blanket land over him. It was soft but felt scratchy on his neck. Following the fall of the blanket, he felt John's arm circle his shoulders and was pulled down slowly only to land his forehead on that warm shoulder.

Feeling the words tickle the crown of his head, he heard John whisper, "much better. This is exactly what I needed, love."

With a small smile and a twinge of pride, the great consulting detective of Bakers Street sought out and captured that tanned hand and held it in his own, feeling the smooth skin under his thumb, feeling that lovely pulse beneath his fingers.

He decided that, if only in this special case, he made a superb doctor.


	47. A Hedgehog and an Otter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God I’m almost embarrassed to post this but I promised myself I would publish all my old 2014 writings even though I’m Two-Decades plus change old and I do not write fables about animals anymore.   
Laugh at me, please, this chapter deserves it +.+  
But enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this is sickly sweet, like a children’s book.

The quiet, lonely hedgehog wobbled along searching for a new home. His old burrow had been flooded over, filled with water like a broken well. Now he roamed the grass, under the hot summer sun. He was thirsty, hungry and tired; little legs hurt like twigs under the pressure of a rainforest canopy.

Suddenly he came upon a brook where a tall, funny looking otter sat. The hedgehog stared at the sleek animal, not the least bit sure of its opinion on lonely hedgehogs. He was so tall, so different from any other the shorter creature had ever seen. It was endearing, but also a tad bit intimidating. Anything tall was potentially dangerous and danger, something the hedgehog had seen enough of in his younger days, was something to be avoided.

But he was hungry, he was thirsty, and he was so very lonely. There was nowhere to go anymore, no home for him. What had he to lose?

Summoning the courage deep inside him, the hedgehog came beside the Otter, glancing up cautiously. The odd-faced animal looked into the water, giving no sign that he even noticed the spiky brown being beside him. No hello was uttered, no social nicety – though the hedgehog assumed Otter's weren't the most friendly of beings, not many appreciated the slick and smart mammals. They were often misunderstood and dismissed as over-watered ferrets.

The patient hedgehog waited as the breeze played on their backs, the scent of the wild moving around them. Suddenly, there was a webbed paw handing over a small branch. On the branch the hedgehog found small raspberries. Elation blossomed within his heart. This was what he had been searching for; this sustenance, this livelihood and perhaps someone to share both with as well.

He had found a new home, tall and odd and kind, in the most unexpected of places.


End file.
